Scar Tissue
by Queen of Kaos
Summary: After ending a longterm relationship, Trish vows to keep her heart from being broken again. Fortunately, it's not her heart that Randy's after. Can a purely physical relationship turn into more? Or has the scar tissue damaged them both beyond repair?
1. Randy's Christmas Wish

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: Okay, so here's the new story. I was going to do a One Shot first, but this feels like the right direction. You know that I derive a lot of inspiration from my friends, and we've had no shortage of relationship drama around here for the last couple of weeks, so that kind of planted a seed in my mind. Also, music is a big muse for me, and Papa Roach's **Getting Away with Murder** album helped me form an outline and get an actual story together. I hope you all enjoy Scar Tissue, and as always, your reviews are much more appreciated than a simple "thank you" can express. I don't own any of the WWE Superstars mentioned here, just in case you are delusional or something. Enjoy!

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The guys thought they were smooth, that their game was indecipherable, and that the girls were just sitting around, unexpectedly falling into their traps. But every WWE diva had done their own scouting of every male wrestler, and though the MO's changed from man to man, the end motivation was always the same.

Cena was the flirt – fun, innocent, and sweet. He was playful, and hilariously funny, and seemed safe enough at first. Going out with John was like going out with the high school quarterback. He liked to shower a girl with just enough affection to make her feel like the head cheerleader at the homecoming dance. More than one of the divas had learned, though, that once you made it back to the Doctor's room, class was in session, and you weren't leaving until you earned a degree in Thuganomics.

Batista was the veteran – sincere, experienced, and giving. He had been around the track more than once, and he had no trouble treating a woman like a queen. They called Dave the Animal, but most of the time he seemed tame, unafraid to be hopelessly romantic with whomever he was dating. Of course, when he locked the bedroom door, the leash came off, and 'unbridled passion' was the only way to describe the next few hours.

Orton was the frat boy – unabashed, unashamed, and uninhibited. He knew how hot he was, and he didn't try to deny it. To say that he had 'game' was corny, but if anyone possessed that certain something, that charm that could get him into any bed at an unguarded moment, it was Randy. Everyone knew his goal was to fuck every diva that came through the WWE before he retired, and he didn't try to deny, or apologize for, it.

Dating most of the wrestlers was really no different than dating any average guy. It meant that you stood a fifty/fifty chance of scoring a second date, maybe a relationship that turned into something serious. But "dating" Orton meant only one thing – you were gonna get one night of really great, mind-blowing, curl-your-toes, and turn-your-insides-out sex, and then you would be expected to act as though it had never happened. Unless, of course, you wanted to tell all of your friends how fuckin' great it had been.

"I don't get it," Christy Hemme sighed, resting her cheek against her palm as she stared across the club. Stacy Kiebler sat to the young diva's right, and Torrie Wilson was situated on the left, each sipping from fruity cocktails and taking a break from the annual WWE Christmas party festivities. "I bent over backwards for him. Literally," she nodded to where Randy was sandwiched between Lita and Trish on the dance floor. "He said it was amazing."

Torrie laughed in spite of herself, and then put a reassuring hand on the red-head's arm. "Sorry, Sweetie," she apologized quickly, shooting a quick look at Stacy. "Um, it's just that, in the Orton dictionary, 'amazing' doesn't exactly mean what it means to most people." Noting the girl's horrified expression, she quickly explained herself. "It's more of a 'good effort' than a 'wow' kinda thing."

Stacy cleared her throat and took another drink from the martini glass in her hand. "Christy, don't sweat it, okay?" When Christy's innocent gaze drifted to the older woman's face, Stacy winced. The kid had it bad, just like every other naïve rookie who stumbled into Orton's bed. "Look, you're not the only one who's ever been crushed out on the Legend Killer, okay?"

"You dated him for awhile, right?" Christy stated, sitting back in her seat and trying to pull her eyes off the man she had thought would be her next true love. "They said you were his last, real girlfriend."

Torrie rolled her eyes and let out an "oh boy" before excusing herself from the table. "I wasn't so much his girlfriend as," Stacy tried to think of the right word, "um, fuck buddy, I guess." Christy's eyes widened slightly. "Randy's not monogamous, ever," Stacy clarified. "But if he likes what you do to him, he might keep you around a little bit longer, if the groupies aren't to his liking or whatever."

"But why?" It baffled the Diva Search winner's mind to hear someone as together as Stacy talking like she had been Randy's whore. "I mean, why would you do it? Knowing that it doesn't mean anything to him, why would you keep going back?"

"Are you kidding?" Stacy laughed, setting her empty glass on the table. "Tell me you wouldn't," she challenged. Christy tried to give an indignant shake of her hair, but Stacy wasn't buying it. "Bull shit. You can't honestly tell me that he wasn't the best fuck you've ever had, Christy."

Christy's heavy sigh was enough of an admission. Turning her attention back to the threesome on the floor, she felt her heart sink. Lita was behind him, a shot glass in one hand as she ran the other down his chest. His fingers kneaded Trish's ass hungrily, and he was licking salt out of her cleavage. Once that was finished, he turned his head to suck the lime wedge that Lita was holding between her teeth. When she spit the rind onto the dance floor, he tilted his head back and rested it on her shoulder, allowing the red-head to pour the tequila down his throat. With his eyes tightly shut, he swallowed the unique body shot, and then resumed his bump-and-grind with both of the women.

Stacy stood, leaving Christy to her own musings. The leggy blonde had smiled and told everyone the same story about Randy: It's hard enough to find a man that can make you orgasm once in awhile, so why wouldn't she stay with the one that made her climax three or four times in one night? The truth, though, was that the hand-holding, and the massages after matches, and the soft way he called her 'Sweetheart' had fooled her into thinking that he was different, or that he wanted to be.

She had fallen into the same trap she used to make fun of her friends for falling into. She believed that Randy wanted to be a better person, he just didn't know how to be. She believed that she could change him, that he would stop wanting to sleep with everyone else if she could just love him enough. When it didn't work, and she finally came to grips with reality, her heart was already broken.

Sidling up to Cena on the dance floor, Stacy tried to ignore the giggles from the women behind her. Randy was grunting and groaning as the two most experienced divas showed him what "a good time really looks like." To see him with anyone else was hard, but with her, it was even worse.

"Looks like tonight's the night, huh?" John asked in Stacy's ear, his eyes reflecting with sincere understanding when she pulled back to meet his gaze.

She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. There was only one who had been there since he entered the WWE, but had never given in to his advances. She was the only one that he couldn't get to cheat on a boyfriend, or a husband, and the only one that didn't seem fooled by his charm. She was the only one he really wanted, whether he admitted it or not.

But Trish Stratus was single for the first time in five years. And nobody at that party doubted, for a second, that Orton would be getting exactly what he wanted for Christmas.


	2. Time to Grow Up

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Alright, so you guys can't possibly know how much your reviews have meant to me today. They always mean a lot, but today was especially hard, and reading all of your kind words made it so much better! You all rock out, hard core! This chapter is a lot of exposition, so I hope it's not too cumbersome. For a little bit of a change, I do own one character in this story - Carter - but nobody else. Enjoy!

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Trish groaned as the morning sunlight reflected off the snow-covered Connecticut earth, and hit her directly in the face. If there was one thing she loved about every WWE Christmas bash, it was the day-off that followed. The party, Vince told them, was his way of saying "thanks" for all of their hard work during the year. The day after, he went on with a smile, was his gift to all of them. And knowing full-well that they would all be too tanked to do anything constructive, it was really the only option from a business perspective, as well.

With a grunt, she sat up and pushed her tangled hair from her face. _Did I forget to the pay the electric bill? _she shivered as she stumbled out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. With a roll of her eyes, she sat on the toilet and covered her throbbing head with her hands. _No wonder I'm freezing my ass off_, she thought when she finally realized she was naked. Her dress from the night before was in a heap on the tiled floor, soaked in what appeared to be a rainbow of regurgitated alcohol.

_What the hell did I do?_ Another groan escaped her lips as the night before came floating back to her clearly, but in disconnected pieces. There had been tequila. Oh, and dancing. Rum. She remembered the rum. There had been Orton. Maybe some vodka?

Rolling her eyes, she finished up in the bathroom and thought about Randy, about the smooth way he had worked her at the party, and how it had almost paid off.

"_Trish, I'm not playing," Randy insisted as he draped his arm over the back of her chair._

_Sweat clung to her curves, causing her hair to stick to her neck and her face. It had been a long time since she had danced with, or had the freedom to flirt with, anyone. And knowing that her value was still high, even after five years off the market, put a little bit of a confident spring in her step. Enough that she was willing to keep playing Orton's game, at least for a little while._

"_I believe you," she lied, sitting as close as she could to the young Legend Killer without actually climbing into his lap. She was fairly certain he wouldn't have minded if she had, though. "I just don't think that you're sober enough right now."_

_Randy raised an eyebrow and looked down Trish's shirt without so much as a pink hue in his cheeks. "Baby, if there is one thing I can promise you about Randy Orton," he licked his lips and put his finger under her chin, drawing her eyes to his, "it's that he is never too drunk, too tired, too grouchy, or too unprepared to pleasure a beautiful woman like you."_

_Trish answered his claim with an eyebrow of her own, moving closer and resting her hand on his thigh. "You think you can pleasure me, Orton?" Her hand slid up his leg and rested beside the hardening bulge in his pants. "You think you can satisfy someone with as much experience as me?"_

_He moaned and lowered his face to hers, claiming her mouth hungrily. He wasn't about to give her some slow, tender lip-dance. He was bound and determined to show her that he was fully capable of out-performing anyone she'd ever been with. His finger ran from her chin to her throat as he licked the roof of her mouth and then pulled away. _

_Trish opened her eyes slowly to find a smirk on his lips, and his finger inching dangerously close to her breast. Scraping her manicured nails across the fabric of his pants, she licked her lips and reached for the beer bottle on the table before her. "Not bad, Kid," she winked._

_He grinned non-chalantly and leaned back in the seat. "Not bad," he scoffed. "Alright, Trish, how 'bout this?" He propositioned her so easily, that she nearly missed the implication of his words. "How 'bout we go back to your place? We'll get out of these sweaty clothes, huh?" Leaning close, he whispered in her ear. Trish closed her eyes as the sultry tone washed over her. "And I'll prove to you that I'm not too drunk to make you scream."_

_They both knew it wasn't so much Trish, as the alcohol, that said "okay" and led him out of that club. They both knew that, as soon as she woke up, she would kick herself for falling into his harem. But Randy was not the knight in shining armor, and he wasn't going to decide, at the last minute, that he couldn't take advantage of her inebriated state. Hell, he was the one that had got her inebriated enough to take him home in the first place._

_Trish spent the entire car ride kissing his neck, running her nails down his back and over his legs. In the glare of oncoming traffic, she unbuttoned his dress shirt and sucked at his soft, salty, sweat-covered chest until he was ready to pull the car over and just fuck her on the shoulder of the busy highway. Trish knew that, once they got to her house, they probably wouldn't even make it inside, and she didn't fuckin' care. Until they pulled into the driveway._

_The sight of the dark motorcycle, resting on its side near the front door, sobered Trish up faster than any pill could have. As Randy parked the car in the circular driveway, she straightened her dress and put a hand on the door. "You have to go."_

_He laughed incredulously, but when Trish turned a serious expression on him, he dropped the grin. "What's goin' on, Trish?"_

_She wanted to tell him, to tell someone, but the words wouldn't come. It was more complicated than any of them would ever understand. "Just," she licked her lips and then shook her head, growing flustered, "You just have to go, okay?" Opening the door, she hopped out of the car and into the cold, night air. "I'm sorry, Randy. Maybe some other time?"_

_He shrugged, threw out a 'whatever,' and sped away, leaving Trish in the driveway to take deep breaths and convince herself that it wouldn't be as bad as she feared._

In the light of day, though, things seemed no better. She was hungover, angry, sad, and confused all at the same time, and she had nothing to keep her mind from recent events. Her dream of a luxurious day off was quickly becoming a nightmare as she stumbled down the stairs and headed for the kitchen.

Leaping off the bottom step, her foot caught on something lumpy and sent her flying, face first, into the hall carpet. It took a few seconds to realize what had happened, and then another couple to sit and brush the hair out of her face. "God dammit, Carter!" The man stirred from his sleeping place and looked at her with groggy eyes. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Pulling himself to a seated position, Carter Schaefer's shocked expression mirrored Trish's. He wiped a thin line of drool from the corner of his mouth and looked around, as if unsure of where he was, or why he was there. "Trish?"

She huffed and stood, motioning for him to do likewise. He had been her best friend since fourth grade, when his family moved in down the street from hers. He had been her first crush in junior high and her first boyfriend in high school. After graduation, they had gone their separate ways, but fate seemed to bring them back together just before Trish signed her WWE contract. They had been inseparable, completely in love, ever since.

But somewhere along the way, the threads of happiness began to unravel, at least for Trish. The traits that seemed attractive when they were teenagers turned annoying as they entered adulthood. His excessive weekend parties, obnoxious jokes and pranks, and inability to hold a job started to grate on her nerves as they both neared thirty.

Worse yet, he seemed completely oblivious to the problems. Anytime she tried to bring up their future, he would tell her it wasn't the right time. He would always say something like _"Trisha, baby, we're young and we're hot. Why you so worried about settling down yet?"_ And after what felt like an eternity of planning her life as Mrs. Carter Schaefer, she had broken up with him.

He hadn't taken it well, insisting that she couldn't have just fallen out of love with him over night. For the next month, he kept telling her that he was sure they could make it work – that he would change, and everything would be okay. He had tried to convince her that losing her had kicked his ass into gear, and that he was going to be better for her in the future.

She wanted to believe him. Lita and Victoria had both told her they didn't understand why she would even consider taking him back, and Trish knew that they were right. There was no evidence to prove that Carter had changed. But he had been a part of her life, practically a part of her family, for over twenty years. They had always been Carter and Trish, and she really couldn't imagine a future without him in it.

She had tried, all during that party, to forget about him completely. Taking Orton home was supposed to be the final send off to all things Carter. But he had been there, waiting for her to get home. He had been waiting to wiggle his way back into her life again. And fuck all if she didn't fall for it again.

"When you said you needed a place to stay," Trish started, leading him into the kitchen while rubbing the back of her head, "I didn't know you meant at the foot of my stairs."

He rolled his eyes and fell onto the bar stool at her counter, resting his head against the cool marble top. "I was on the couch," he answered. "But I had to pee."

Trish stood at the refrigerator, contemplating its contents, but at the sound of his words, she whipped her head around. "If you fuckin' pissed on my floor, I swear to God," she started.

Carter waved her off with a lazy hand and turned his face toward the wall. "Made it to the can," he assured her, his voice muffled by his sleeve. "Just not back to the couch."

He was out of money again, and didn't have a place to stay. He had promised her, on his knees, that he just needed to stay with her for one day, and then he would be gone. With puppy dog eyes, he had pulled the "you're my best friend" card, and she had caved like sandcastle at high tide.

"What time do you have to be at work?" she asked, pouring orange juice for both of them. From what she remembered, through the drunken fog, he had called almost a week ago to tell her that he had landed a new construction job and that he was saving to put some money down on a little house in the country, the kind she had always wanted.

With a snort and the roll of his head, Trish realized he had fallen asleep again. Irritated with the hangover and the sight before her, she nudged his arm until he awoke with a start. "What?" he shouted, bumping his head on the cabinets above him. "Fuck, Trish. What the hell?"

She narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips, ignoring the toast in the machine behind her. "I'm not in the mood for your bull shit, Carter. What time do you have to fuckin' be at work?"

He closed his eyes again, and then rubbed his hands over his stubbly, unshaven face. "I don't," he sighed.

"Huh?"

"I don't have to be at work today," he answered, not meeting her eye.

"Why not?" Trish wracked her brain for a legitimate excuse that a man working construction wouldn't have to be at work on a Friday. "Is it some American holiday that I forgot about? You workin' 4 ten hour days? What is it, Carter?"

He cringed and looked at her through his fingers, giving her his best "little boy" face. It was the one that had gotten him out of so many predicaments when they were together. "I kinda quit."

But he wasn't a little boy. And they weren't together anymore. And in that moment, Trish remembered why. Slamming her juice to the counter top, and ignoring the shattered glass, she took a step back to stop herself from getting physical. "You know what? Fuck you," she shouted. "Fuck you for coming over here in the middle of the night, crying about how you don't have a fuckin' place to stay when you can't keep a fuckin' job for more than two weeks. What the fuck was wrong this time? Huh? Was there even a reason? Do you realize that you are thirty fuckin' years old? This is not cute anymore!"

Letting out a sigh, her shoulders sagged as she watched him growing defensive. "Well, I'm sorry I can't get a fuckin' job where I lift weights all day, and strut around being beautiful," he accused.

She had folded to that argument before, but this time was different. Something inside Trish was tired of giving in to him. "I'm sorry, too, Carter. I'm sorry that you can't get a job where all you have to do is being fuckin' pretty." Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him. "And if, after five years, you still think that's all I do for a living? Then don't you ever ask my why the fuck we broke up again." Narrowing her eyes, she pointed to the door. "I think you better go. Now."

Standing, he gave her an indignant stare, as though he was the one with a right to be mad. "Fine," he shouted, like a child throwing a tantrum. "But you remember who loves you, Trisha. You remember who has loved you since back before anyone else knew you. You remember who loved you before you had the fake tits and the new nose!" His eyes filled with tears and his lip quivered. "I'm not givin' up on us, Baby."

When he was gone, Trish found herself overcome with emotions she couldn't understand. She knew she was doing the right thing. So why did it hurt so much to throw him out? She knew that he had been able to cry on cue since high school drama classes. So why did seeing his tears break her heart? She knew that he had always been against her cosmetic "enhancements." So why did his insults make her think he still cared more about her as a person than anyone else? And why the hell was she considering calling Randy Orton at a time like this?

_Come on, Trish. Randy likes your boobs. He likes your nose. Hell, he likes everything about you. He wants you – has for years. And he's not gonna want anything in return. You don't have to get attached. He can't break your heart or make you cry. If he's half as good as everyone says, you can have great sex, and no threat of disappointment. Isn't that what you really want?_

It was stupid, with all of the potential in the world to end badly. No, tragically. Catastrophically. But dammit if she didn't pick up her cell and dial the number he had entered after his first proposition, two years ago.


	3. Get In, Get Off, Get Out

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: So, I don't know how you guys feel about "heel" Randy, but I have to admit that I love him! I love the Legend/Lady Killer, the cocky bastard who thinks everyone should bow to his greatness. If you don't agree, you're probably not gonna like this chapter, because it's oozing selfish Orton. Anyway, I think it's fun to write, so I hope you find it somewhat fun to read. Thanks for the reviews- you guys really are the best. Feel free to tell me whatever you're thinking when you read the chapters - whether you love the characters or hate them. If you're truly disgusted by Randy, then I know that I have to work that much harder for him to win you over in the end. And if you're pissed about the way Trish handles something, maybe I can explain it in the next chapter, ya know? I'm all about giving you guys what you want, even if you have to wait a few chapters to get it. Alright, I don't own anyone in this chapter, except the dog (since I don't know if Randy's personal feelings on canines, or whether he has any). Enjoy!

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Being Randy Orton was a high maintenance, and sometimes dangerous, job. Over time, he had forgotten more girls' names than he remembered, and he knew he couldn't pick most of them out of a line up. He had been physically threatened by more than one husband, boyfriend, and father. While he had yet to take a paternity test, he was fairly certain that day would come eventually.

Not that he was careless. In fact, Randy Orton was nothing if not the height of caution. He wasn't a loose canon – there were rules. The best advice Ric Flair had ever given him was to always, ALWAYS, use protection. _Doesn't matter how hot she is, Randall. Don't buy that 'it's better without a rubber' bull shit. _It almost surprised him that he didn't get Christmas cards from Trojan, as he was probably single-handedly keeping them afloat.

The other rules were less about physical consequences, and more about emotional ones. He never took a woman back to his house. He assumed his mom had seen his bedroom when she was house sitting – otherwise, it was off-limits to females in general. He could ask a girl to come over, have some dinner, play with his dogs, and spend the night. Or he could ask her to suffocate his social calendar, call him four times a day, and drop continuous hints about a ring and kids for the next eighteen months. It was all the same in Randy's eyes.

On the flip side, he never spent an entire night at a woman's house, either. Get in. Get off. Get out. It was a simple three-step method that seemed to like him just fine. He had perfected the art of holding her until she fell asleep, and then slipping out of the room before she could notice he was gone. Once in awhile, he actually stopped to think that this girl would wake up and realize that she had been used and tossed to the side, but it didn't change things for him. He wasn't interested in a relationship, and he wasn't going to get tripped into one by the occasional guilty thought.

He never gave out his phone number, at least to random groupies. The divas all had his digits, but they saw him every night anyway, so he felt like he couldn't avoid it. Other girls, though, didn't need to get ahold of him once he had moved on to another city. He didn't have time for their rambling messages about how magical their time together had been, or about the connection they had made. And he didn't need them calling to yell at him because they felt bad about themselves.

The next rule, at least in his mind, was what made him the master. A lot of guys in the locker room thought the one-night stand was all about making a girl do whatever made them feel good, whether she liked it or not. But Randy prided himself on having never told a woman what he wanted. With enough "innocent" suggestions and questions, he could get whatever his body desired, while she thought the ideas were all hers. Whether they hated themselves in the morning or not, they loved every minute they spent with him.

There was one, final rule in 'Orton's Guide to Fuck and Run Encounters': Always have a fall back. There were no sure things. If he got a woman naked, and she decided to bail? He was done. He wasn't going to pressure anyone, or ask them twice. Not when there were twenty more in the hotel lobby waiting for him. Though no one would really believe it, he respected every woman enough to make her own decision. And none of them were worth the law suits and bad publicity that would accompany taking what he wanted without permission.

So, instead of worrying about what happened if Girl A freaked out, he just set up a contingency with Girl B. Sometimes he would actually find time for both of them in the same night. And if not? Well, they didn't have his number, so they couldn't call and whine about why he hadn't shown up.

Roster chicks made great fall backs, since they were always around anyway. Stacy had been his "Girl B" for awhile, and before her, Gail Kim had served as a pretty good time. Both were tiny and flexible – Randy's favorite package. "Tiny" meant that he didn't have to exert much energy to keep them sated, and "flexible" meant that they could do damn near anything to keep him happy.

But the ultimate fall back had been, and would always be, Lita. No one knew that Randy had been sleeping with her since his OVW days, and neither seemed all that excited to make their affair public. They were friendly enough during the day – sitting together once in a while at lunch, or helping each other out of sticky situations at a club. But Lita had been with Matt when they met, and now Edge, and Randy wasn't interested in breaking up those relationships, or any other. He didn't want a girlfriend, and if he did, it wouldn't be Lita. She wasn't his type, in the traditional sense, and sometimes they would go months at a time without seeing each other. She fully understood that he only called if there was no one else. And he understood that she was only really attracted to one part of him.

So, after Trish had bailed on him for reasons he still didn't understand, he had called Lita, who had welcomed him over. Edge was doing some in-store in Toronto right before Christmas, so he had gone home early to visit family – she had a whole house to herself, and was more than willing to share it with him.

He was in, off, and out by 4 am, remotely pleased with the way the evening had gone. Sure, the penultimate would have been finally fucking Trish Stratus, but she changed her mind, and he wasn't going to violate any of his rules for anyone. Even her.

Truth be told, Trish was like his World Heavyweight title. Before he had won that belt, it had been his driving force, the one thing that he couldn't wait to slip around his waist, to hold in his possession. Watching someone else wear it amplified his need for it, his desire to touch it, to own it.

She was really no different. She was always held by someone else. She was within his reach, but so far out of his grasp. He would get close enough to taste the victory, only to have it yanked out of his hands at the last second. The longer she was dangled in front of his face, the more he wanted to reach out and take her. And he knew that, even though it frustrated him to no end, it was his favorite part.

That night in Toronto, after he won the belt, he had been so proud of it. He hadn't let it out of his sight for about a week. And then he got bored with it. He was incredibly proud of what it meant, how he had earned it, and that the title would always precede his name. But the belt itself became an accessory, just another thing he had to remember to pack before heading to the next city. And he feared the same thing would happen with Trish, once he finally won her over.

With no hangover to speak of, Randy knew he should have been doing something other than sitting on the couch, watching ESPN, and being lazy. But he really didn't feel like going anywhere or seeing anyone. He rationalized, telling himself that Cena was probably still sleeping off the night before with Stacy, and that Dave wouldn't pull himself out of Victoria's bed until well into the afternoon. Plus, he didn't want to answer any questions about what hadn't happened with Trish.

The loud beep of his cell phone's "message alert" startled him slightly. With a questioning eyebrow raised, Randy picked up the tiny phone and checked the screen. One missed call? Who would be calling him at eleven o'clock in the morning? He hit a few buttons and held the receiver to his ear as one of his dogs, a large bull dog named Maguire, pulled himself onto the couch and rested his huge head on Randy's thigh.

Running his hand over the dog's head, Randy listened, and then winked at his companion's sad eyes. "Hey, Randy, it's Trish. Look, I know I totally bailed on you last night without explanation, and you're probably all indignant or whatever." She stopped and laughed. "What the fuck am I saying? You probably just went to Lita's, right?"

His heart dropped into his stomach. Of course, he knew that Lita and Trish had been friends at one time, but had the red-head shared their secret? Wasn't she the one who always said no one, NO ONE, could ever find out. Normally, he wouldn't care. But if Lita's true confession messed up his shot with Trish, he was going to be one pissed Legend Killer.

"Um, so I was hoping to make it up to you. I thought we could get together sometime this week, maybe after a show or something?" She waited for a moment and then sighed. "Oh, and to answer your greeting there – my wildest fantasy involves a blindfold, baby oil, chocolate chips, and a pair of stiletto boots. I'll talk to you later."

Maguire's eyes drifted shut as Randy disconnected the call and tossed the phone back to the end table. "Great," he groaned, slumping further into his seat. "Where am I gonna get a pair of stiletto boots?" He continued to rub the dog's head and watch television. He would until he saw her the next night to respond, and then he would show her a night neither of them would ever forget.


	4. How to Get What You Want

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: So, thanks to everyone who has been reviewing so kindly. Your love of bad-ass Orton means that I can keep writing him downright bastardly without too much fear of losing readers. Yippie! On a side note, did you see him wrestling Benoit on Smackdown last night? God, he was just oozing that sexual arrogance, right? My roommate was totally laughing at me every time I groaned or threatened to start drooling. NEway - keep the reviews coming - I don't own Trish, any of the other Superstars mentioned here, or Orton, but I know what I would do with him if I did. It's a good thing this site doesn't allow really explicit content, or you might know, too. Enjoy!

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Trish stood in the hallway of the hotel, her hand hovering above the door. Lita said that everyone was getting together, like old times, in John's room and that she should stop by, if she felt like it. But Trish knew that "getting together like old times" meant Randy, John, and Dave would be entertaining every diva who didn't have anything else to do. If she went inside, she had to watch the three of them flirt with everyone while pretending to be interested in whatever basketball, football, or baseball game was on ESPN 2.

The only thing that had brought her this far was the idea of spending some quality time with Lita, Victoria, and Stacy. They had been really close, once upon a time, her best friends. But then Carter started traveling with her, and Trish found herself opting out of the "group hang" in favor of quiet movie nights with him. After three years, she felt like she hardly knew the women who were supposed to be her 'girls,' let alone the new ones who paraded through the locker room all the time. Tonight would be good for her – she could forget about the tragic farce that had been her holiday vacation and move on to the future.

But as beneficial as it would be for Trish to spend time with old friends, Randy was in there. Since leaving him the ill-fated voice mail, she had done everything in her power to forget she had ever called in the first place. She didn't need to be the girl who threw herself into a sexual relationship just because she didn't have a steady boyfriend. She wasn't the girl who needed a man in her bed to make her feel complete. And when he didn't press the issue, she had taken it as a sign that she was supposed to steer clear of the Legend Killer and just focus on getting the old, firey, independent Trish back.

And then Christmas happened. Since she was ten, her family and Carter's always got together for a big holiday dinner, and this year had been no different. But Carter hadn't come to the event alone – he had shown up with a fake-ass stripper named Candy, who didn't seem to realize it was Christmas in Toronto, not 4th of July in South Beach. He told Trish that if they were really done, and she wasn't going to take him back, that he was moving on. And it had hurt.

She had watched them flirt and paw at each other the entire night, and instead of the indignation she knew she should have felt, her ego was bruised and her dreams were shattered. Any hope she had been holding on to, any idea that Carter was going to change for the better because of their break-up, was gone. They were done, and her perfectly-planned future was now a blank slate.

The sadness created feelings of self-doubt and depression, and Trish found herself questioning everything she had been sure of in the past. Was there something wrong with her? Why hadn't Carter wanted her enough to change for her? And after five years of repeatedly reminding anyone who showed a remote interest in her that she was unavailable, would anyone approach her? Who was going to want Trish Stratus now?

Returning to work at the beginning of the new year, she had gone to Randy's locker room, fully intent on saying nothing, only letting him fuck away all the paranoia and doubt that was crowding her thoughts and making her crazy. And that's when she had heard him talking to John – about her.

"_Have you tried calling her?" John asked, as though it were the most obvious solution._

"_I don't call the girls, John. They call me. They come to me. I don't have to ask," Randy huffed. From outside the door, Trish could feel her eyes begging for permission to roll toward the ceiling. He really did think he was all that and a can of Pringles, didn't he?_

"_Yeah, but Trish isn't just another girl, Randy. I mean, I've seen you with normal girls, and you ain't never been like this," the East-Coast native was quick to point out. "I mean, clearly, you have feelings for her – why else would you let her get inside your head?"_

_Randy had laughed – it wasn't an agreement, or even a warm concession. It was cold and directly challenging. "I don't have feelings for Trish, man," he insisted. She swallowed hard and braced herself for what was coming next as she pressed her ear closer to the door. "I mean, having feelings for her would imply that I give a damn about her personality. It would mean that I wanna sit around and listen to her talk, even if it's about her problems or whatever." He laughed loudly and it startled Trish for a second, causing her to jump back and check the hall. The last thing in the world she wanted was to be caught eavesdropping outside Randy's locker room._

"_The only reason I care that she broke up with that motherfucker she was dating is because now she might actually give it up," he added. His voice grew slightly more distant and Trish assumed he was moving to the other side of the room. "You might be right, man. I do wanna know her," he conceded. "I wanna know what every inch of that amazing body looks like naked and sweaty. And I wanna know how hot and wet she feels around me. I wanna know what she sounds like when she screams my name. _

"_It's like she's my fantasy woman at this point, the one that I think about when whatever girl I'm with just isn't doin' it for me. It's like I gotta know if she lives up to the hype, ya know?"_

_There was a long silence, and Trish wondered what had happened. For a split second, she thought about charging in the room and telling Orton to believe the fuckin' hype. She wanted to dare him to take what he wanted right then and there, even if John was in the room. The way he spoke was so commanding, so hungry. Instead of being repulsed by his lack of interest in anything but her body, she found herself incredibly turned on. If Carter had ever – she stopped herself from thinking it as John spoke._

"_Man, you're right. She ain't your crush. She's your fuckin' obsession."_

With one more deep breath, Trish knocked on the door of the hotel suite and waited for someone to answer. She didn't need a man to keep her happy, or make her feel fulfilled and satisfied. But the more she let her thoughts wander to him, the more flattered she found herself, knowing that he fantasized about her, and wanted her more than anyone else in the locker room. The more flattered she became, the more curious she was about the legend that was Randy Orton. And the more curious she became, the more determined she was to find out if he could really deliver what he claimed he could.

When no one answered the door, Trish pushed it with her shoulder. It was so familiar, all of them sitting around, laughing and watching television. But the players had changed somewhat, and she wasn't sure how she would fit in. Cena was on the floor, Stacy and Maria stretched out at either of his sides. Dave sat on the furthest end of the couch, his arm draped behind Victoria, who was resting her head on his massive shoulder. Christy sat on the floor, braiding Candice's hair like they were junior high girls at a sleepover, and Ashley, the newest Diva Search winner, was on the nearest end of the couch, cheek in her hand, staring blankly at the television.

As she shut the door behind her, a sound in the kitchenette to her left made her jump. Turning, she found Lita bent over in front of the refrigerator, mumbling something as a beer can shot out of her grip and slid across the floor. "Fuckin' cheap-ass Canadian beer," she mumbled, noticing Trish's tennis shoe first, and then sliding her gaze up her friend's legs, finally resting with a sheepish grin on the blonde woman's face. "Hey."

Trish smiled and picked up the can, as the rest of the party-goers finally noticed her and offered small waves of greeting. She moved to the other side of the counter and turned her back on the crowd. "So, who the fuck drinks Canadian beer?" she finally asked.

Rolling her blue eyes, Lita shrugged. "I don't know. I think it was left over from our last trip up there. John can't seem to throw a good beer out," she sighed as though Trish should already know that.

She did remember, but turned her nose up offending container once more. "Yeah, but that's not good beer," she reminded.

"All beer is good beer," a deep voice sounded out of nowhere, as Randy reached around Trish to grab a can from Lita's hand. With easy fingers on her shoulder, he bent low and whispered in her ear, "I didn't think you'd show."

Her first instinct was to stare at the countertop and deny that he was affecting her at all. But he was so close, inches away, and she couldn't resist the urge to turn and look up into his eyes.

That's when she realized it – Randy wanted her. Of course, she had known that, but she hadn't realized how uncharacteristic it was for him. He had a reputation for wanting all woman, but he never dwelt on any of them. He never wasted his time with one when he could have five others. Until her.

_Oh, you could make him do things, Trish. You could make him do things he never thought he'd do. This could be fun_, she thought as she ran a fingernail down his chest. "Yeah, well, there's a new girl around," she nodded toward Ashley and then looked back at him, only to find his piercing crystal eyes still fixed on her face, "and I didn't want you to take advantage of her too soon or anything. So I thought I better come and make sure you were being a good boy."

Randy licked his lips and sat his beer back on the counter, resting his arms on either side of her. She was trapped, and close enough to smell the faint whisper of soap on his skin. His voice was low, and it reverberated with hungry desire. "Baby, trust me – when you come, you'll be glad I'm not a good boy."

A rush of embarrassed heat flooded her face and a tiny giggle escaped her throat. Passing it off as an amused cough, she pushed him back a few inches and took the can from her side. Popping the tab, she took a gulp and wiped the remains from her chin with one manicured finger. "We'll see who's coming later," she winked, using the shock-factor of her words to push away from him and join the rest of the group.

Randy groaned at the image of Trish wiping her mouth, closed his eyes for a second, and regained his composure. Following her toward the over-stuffed chair near the couch, he grabbed her arm and sank to the seat, pulling her into his lap. She had avoided him long enough, and while he appreciated the challenge, tonight was the night that he took what he wanted. Tonight was the night he let her think that taking him back to her room and bringing his fantasies to life was her idea. Tonight, he claimed Trish Stratus and added her to his list of conquests.

Trish wiggled against the bulge at her ass and rested her head against Randy's chest. "What are you doing?" she giggled, more to herself than him, as one arm slid around her waist and rested just under the hem of her tee shirt. She was fully aware that Ashley, and a couple of the other girls were watching them, but she didn't care.

"I'm not lettin' you get away again," he answered easily. When Trish turned to challenge his statement, he drank from the same can she had moments ago, and raised his eyebrow.

Trish remembered, in an instant, the days before Carter. In the three years that the pair had been separated, Trish had become, well, "experimental." She had a reputation with the fans, but it was nothing compared to the reputation she had with the men who had known her back then. Orton hadn't known that Trish, and if he had? He could have learned a thing or two.

He thought he could get whatever he wanted by fooling her into thinking it was what she wanted. But Trish smiled to herself and wove her fingers through his, forcing his hand slightly lower on her stomach. He ran a tight game, a damn-near flawless one, she had to admit. _Awe, but guess what? _Biting her lip, she laughed inwardly and shifted her weight into his groin again, as she thought, _You can't play a player, Orton. You wanna see how one gets exactly what one wants? You stick with me, Kid. Tonight's gonna be the longest, hottest, wettest, greatest night of your fucking life._


	5. Finally!

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: Okay - since some of you are insisting that you absolutely CANNOT wait to find out what happens next, I decided to post the big sex chapter. It's not what I would consider terribly explicit, but you've been warned. And just because they finally got it on, don't be so naive as to think this is the end. In fact, the problems are only just beginning. So, I don't own Randy or Trish, but y'all know that. Check it out, review, and Enjoy!

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_

Randy let out a loud groan and looked at the ceiling. He had been Suplexed, Pedigreed, Spine Busted, Choke Slammed, Tombstoned, Leg Dropped, Batista Bombed, Frog Splashed, Figure Foured, and Unprettied in his career. He had put his body through grueling No Holds Barred matches and Steel Cage matches. There were mornings when he woke up, after all of the adrenaline had run through his system, unable to move.

But he had never, in his twenty-five years, experienced the sore, spent, sated feeling that Trish Stratus gave him. She blew right past unbelievable into whatever lay beyond, and nothing he could have dreamed up in his wildest fantasies would have prepared him for the night she had given him.

In his opinion, the evening had started slow – what with all the bull shit of hanging out with their friends. For a few minutes, they had shared the chair in Cena's room, but Trish had eventually moved on to talking with the other women from the floor in front of him. His hands hadn't left her hair, or her shoulders, or her neck. Anything to make sure she didn't get too far away. Touching her was addictive, and he found that he couldn't get enough of her smooth skin and the vibrations that flowed through her body when she laughed. Everything she did turned him on.

_He finally had to stop touching her when she stood to use the bathroom. But when she returned, climbed into his lap, and straddled his legs, Randy's hands found her ass with a death grip. She kissed his neck, despite the catcalls from the rest of the room, and suggested they go back to his room._

"_Yours is closer," he pointed out._

_Trish sucked on his Adam's apple for a moment and then pulled back, licking her lips. "What's a matter, Orton? You can't wait till we get to the end of the hall?"_

_He chuckled and shook his head. "You're lucky I'm waiting till we get out of this chair," he warned._

"_We will see you guys later," she had waved to the room, dragging him by the hand into the hallway without a second look over her shoulder._

There had been no need for words between them, and as soon as the dead-bolt was secured, and the chain lock was in place, she had jumped into his arms, wrapped her legs around his waist, and knocked him flat on the floor. For some reason, her aggressive nature caught him off guard, and she had unzipped his pants and captured him firmly in her lips, scraping him with her teeth, before he knew what was going on.

Randy Orton was used to being the one in charge – he liked being the master and commander in the bedroom. He liked knowing that he was the one who knew what happened next, and this one was throwing him off. So, as much as it pained him to withdraw from the warm confines of her steamy mouth, he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back. "Come on," he ordered.

Trish didn't make it to her feet before he lifted her small frame in his arms and flung her over his shoulder. Kicking out of his pants as he walked to the bed, he smacked her ass to remind her who was in charge, and threw her onto the bed. The look in her eyes as he peeled her jeans away said that she didn't mind his change of direction, either.

That had been hours ago. The clock beside her bed said that it was nearly three in the morning, and they had to leave for the next city in roughly four hours. He needed to sleep, to get back to his own room. But dammit if his legs wouldn't move on their own.

He was numb. Randy Orton was numb. There was only one way he could imagine to keep the Legend Killer in a woman's bed after he was done with her, and Trish Stratus had found it. She had paralyzed him with scintillating maneuvers, a crafty tongue, and the stamina of a god. He never felt tired after sex with a girl – or more than one girl, for that matter. He prided himself on being able to go three, maybe four, hours easily.

But in a little more than a hundred and twenty minutes (that's two hours), Trish had gotten him up and off no less than five times, and he still wasn't sure how. _At least_, he encouraged himself, _you kept up. Can you imagine how humiliating it would have been if you let her wear you out?_

With a half-laugh at the notion, and a half-grunt at the effort, he rolled his shoulder off the mattress and inwardly demanded his legs move toward the floor. "Where do you think you're going?" Trish asked weakly. Her hand found his back and he shook his head.

"You can't possibly," he started and then sighed, flopping back. His head rested on her thighs and she smiled down at him, her fingernails running through his sweat-soaked hair.

"What's a matter, Kid?" Trish's eyebrow raised as she struggled to sit, and settled for resting on her elbows. "You can't keep up with me?" She studied his expression, and Randy tried his best to mask his true feelings – exhaustion, mixed with more than a little awe. "Ya know what? Whatever," she shrugged and laid her head back down on the pillow. "You lasted longer than most guys do."

If she meant it as a compliment, it was lost on him. Adrenaline coursed through him as his body, seemingly of its own volition, lunged toward her. "Please," he huffed, resting his weight on his arms, willing them not to buckle under him. "I just didn't wanna wear you out on the first night."

The first night? Was he actually giving a girl hope that she would get more than one shot with him? Shaking the pride that so often fueled his actions, Randy admitted to himself that Trish was not, as John had pointed out, just some girl. She was, far and away, the best fuck EVER, and he was not leaving that room until she felt the same way about him.

Her eyes shot open in surprise, and her 'yelp' sounded with a strain as he entered her hard and started to move. He had given it to her fast, slow, hard, gentle, backward, forward, and upside down. But he had been holding back. She was so sure she could take everything he could give? Then he would pull out all the stops.

"WAIT!" Trish screamed, pushing him off mid-thrust. Randy didn't know whether to slap her or run and hide. What the hell was she scurrying away for? "You're not," she started, her torso disappearing over the edge of the bed for a second. When she sat up, she held a foil wrapper between her fingers, "protected," she finished, her chest heaving from the exerted energy.

Resisting the urge to kick his own ass, Randy tore the package open with his teeth and sheathed himself as quickly as he could, grabbing her ankles and throwing them over his shoulders. All-in-all, the exchange took less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity to him.

Buried deep within her inviting heat once more, he accelerated until her back arched off the bed and her breath came out in short, labored gasps. She was moaning, groaning, gripping the headboard, and encouraging him to do it harder. Surprised at his own strength in that moment, he continued to thrust, holding her gaze with his eyes as he gripped the backs of her thighs for support.

When she finally called out "Fuck, Orton!" he let himself go, filling the condom and then collapsing on her chest. Total time – less than ten minutes, but he didn't care. It had been the perfect cap to the perfect evening.

And as soon as he could move again, he would pull out and go back to his room for some much needed, and hard-earned, rest.


	6. Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: So my mind has been in overdrive today, and I got a bunch of new ideas for this story. Originally, it was only supposed to be eight chapters, but now it's going to be twelve. I think that's a good thing, and I hope you agree. As another word of warning, there's some explicit stuff in this chapter, but I don't think any more so than the last one. Enjoy Randy and Trish together like this because the "happy" can't last. Don't hate me - y'all knew bad things had to be coming. So - I don't own 'em, I just let 'em fuck around for my own amusement. Enjoy!

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_

"Bull shit!" Trish sat naked against the headboard, a challenging look in her eyes as Randy stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips.

He licked his lips and cocked his head to the side, raising an eyebrow in response. "I'm serious!" he insisted.

She crossed her arms over her chest and considered his handsome features. Their first night together had been about making a statement. She wanted him to know that she was worth every second he had spent in fantasies with her, and that the real thing was a hundred times better than anything he could have dreamed. Her pride wanted to show the kid that he wasn't the only one who had earned the props he was given.

She had grown so accustomed to being who she was with Carter, to feeling how he made her feel, that she hadn't even noticed how anesthetized she had become. Sure, they had been good together, and he had brought her great pleasure. He loved her, and sex with him made her feel needed and appreciated. But 'good enough' had become the standard with him, and she had settled for it, nearly forgetting what anything else felt like.

Fucking Orton made her feel alive. There was no love, no affection, in his actions. He wasn't interested in making her feel like she was the center of his universe. He wanted to make her face twist with pleasure she had never known, to make her scream things she had never said out loud. He just wanted to set her on fire and make her remember the best night of her life.

And he had. Not that she would ever tell him that. She knew once he was satisfied that she had never been with anyone like him, he would lose interest. The flirtatious innuendos at the arenas would stop. The seductive dances and kisses at the clubs would stop. And the agonizing foreplay on the way back to the hotel would stop. He would move on, find someone else's inner vixen to awaken, and she would go back to being dead inside.

Fortunately, Orton was so much like her, that Trish had no trouble pushing his buttons and keeping him around. At least for the eight days that followed their encounter so far. He was enthusiastic, and determined to find the one move, the one position, that finally forced her to give herself over completely. And she was using his competitive spirit to her full advantage. The longer she made him think that he wasn't the best, the harder he tried to prove her wrong. The harder he tried, the higher her inner flames stretched. And the more the fire was stoked, the closer she came to being the complete Trish Stratus of old once again.

"You don't have a wrestling move in your arsenal that could get me off, Orton," she insisted, finally answering the challenge he had thrown down moments ago.

Randy huffed and stared her down, fighting like hell not to let his eyes drift over her bare form. Not that she was trying very hard to keep her eye contact high, but he wasn't about to lose this argument. He'd lost enough of them over the last week. "I've got, like, ten of 'em," he insisted.

But Trish just laughed, rolling off the side of the bed. With her hands on her own hips, she nodded to the mattress, which they had stripped down to its fitted, white sheet. "Show me, if you think you can," she challenged. "But your moves are high impact. They're fast and they're about take downs and knock outs. Even if you slow 'em down, there's nothing that's going to last long enough to get me off," she insisted.

Crawling onto the bed, he faced her on his knees and rolled his eyes. "Just turn around," he commanded, his tone saying that he was tired of talking. They never talked as much as they had that night – daring each other to a sexual game of 'Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better.' He glanced at the clock. It was almost four in the morning already, and he was thankful that they didn't have a show later in the day.

Trish turned toward the wall, her back to him, and crossed her arms again. It wasn't that she was just goading him into giving her something she really wanted. She had gone over his normal, in-ring routine, and honestly couldn't think of anything that he could use to send her over the edge. He was all about drop kicks, the cross body, clotheslines, and the RKO. There were a few submission holds, but they weren't going to make her feel anything but uncomfortable.

She was deep in thought when she felt his large hand wrap around her thigh, his thumb barely brushing against her as he pulled her backward with a great force. Trish landed on the bed with a 'thud' and Randy flipped over her, his hands on her hips as he drove her knees toward her chest with his shoulders.

With the "modified" inside cradle applied, her legs up, and her shoulders pinned, she waited to see what he would do. Surprises were a given with him, and when three of his fingers plunged deeply inside her, she felt her body cringe. Her eyes squeezed shut at the sudden invasion, and she realized that he was waiting – and watching.

Opening one eye, she let out a sigh of resignation. "You win." She tried to shrug, but her shoulders weren't moving with the grip he had. He nodded in agreement, and continued to watch her with that cocky-ass smirk she just wanted to smack off his face. "Well?" she asked.

"Well, what?" he asked, biting his lip to keep the laughter from pouring out.

"Are you gonna finish or not?" It took everything inside of her not to start grinding against his hand before he moved. Everything was a power play between them, and neither gave in to the other before they were damn good and ready. She wasn't about to start now.

After another few seconds of just sitting there, Randy started to pump his fingers in and out of her, enjoying the sight as she tried to writhe and wiggle while he had her pinned. The more she struggled, the more her hips moved. And the more her hips moved, the louder she screamed. He was barely doing anything, barely moving his wrist, and she was going to lose it in a matter of seconds. _I am a fucking god_, he congratulated himself when Trish finally tightened around him and then released with a deep, contented sigh.

With a satisfied wink, he raised his hand to his lips and ran his tongue over his fingers. Trish groaned and waited for the twitching to stop. He could pretend that it was no big deal, that she was the only who had enjoyed that, but his body wasn't helping with the lie. At least, one part of his body wasn't. "Get on your knees," she pointed to the bed and struggled to stand on the soft mattress. "Lean against the headboard."

"What?" Randy's shoulders fell in disappointment. "You can't possibly think you're going to beat that," he insisted. If she thought she was the only one playing this 'I'll let you think I've had better' game, she was sadly mistaken. He wasn't used to being with the same girl this many nights in a row, that was true. But he wasn't used to finding one who could make him feel like she did, either. It was a fair trade off in his mind, for now.

She just pointed to the pillow and told him to sit again. When he was situated, Trish measured her distance and turned her back, praying that the mattress wouldn't give and cause her to break her neck. It would have been a maneuver better attempted on the floor, but she wasn't about to tell him to move now.

Randy studied her for a second. She was only a few feet away, and he could see her shoulders rising and falling with a nervous sigh. Her hair clung to her skin in sweat-soaked strings. Tiny beads of perspiration coursed down her back and gathered at the base of her spine. But before he had time to appreciate the perfect curve and tightness of her ass, she started to bend.

Trish dropped backward as slowly as she could, performing the move she'd never named. It was known only as "the Matrix thing" and it kind of hurt her back a little bit. But as she gripped his thighs for support, and came face-to-face with RKO Jr., she licked her lips and smiled to herself. He had let out a tiny gasp, one she was sure wasn't meant for her ears, as she folded herself nearly in half for him.

It wasn't at all unlike trying to drink from a bottle while hanging upside down, but she managed to hold the position and continue. He wasn't sure if he should touch her, or if that would send her crashing to the bed, ending his fun and injuring her beyond any usefulness for the rest of the night. Instead, he gripped the pillows at each of his sides and tried to keep his eyes open. Once again, he reminded himself of how much he loved flexible women.

Trish felt him tightening in her mouth and she pulled out before he could unload on her. Of all the ways she could think to go, choking to death on his 'essence' was the least sexy. Returning herself to a standing position, she turned and raised an eyebrow, wiping her lips and watching him fight for breath. "I win," she finally giggled, clapping for herself as she sank to the mattress and hugged her knees to her chest.

"What?" Randy looked incredulous. He would have agreed, but it wasn't in his nature to admit defeat. "What do you mean, you win? How the hell do you figure that?"

Trish guffawed, her eyes wide with indignation. "How can you not think I won?" she challenged. "Come on, Orton, that move could have been played a hundred different ways. It's totally the more useful of the two moves." She raised an eyebrow and then added, "Plus, it looks cooler."

With a slight pout, he shrugged and rolled off the bed, gathering his clothes from the floor. "I need a shower," he stated simply.

Trish stretched out on the bed and watched him slip into his jeans. "What? Now you're just gonna take your balls and go home?"

With a smirk, he shook his head. He didn't know much about Trish Stratus. In fact, in all the time he'd known her, he couldn't remember ever having a conversation that involved anything remotely non-sexual. But he couldn't bring himself to think about the day when she might be his Girl B. He wasn't ready to bend the rules for her, or to even think about the word "girlfriend," but he was damn sure now that she was his Girl A, no matter where they were or who else was vying for the position. At least for another week or so.

"I'm gonna go take a shower," he repeated firmly, his voice tinted with just a hint of amusement, "and then I'ma get some sleep," he responded, slipping his tee shirt over his head. "You wanna catch breakfast tomorrow or what?"

Trish looked at the ceiling and shook her head. "I can't. I'm eating with Lita and Stacy before we head out," she answered. Randy groaned. Lita and Stacy – the two women who could tell Trish more about him than anyone else in the company. "Oh, relax," Trish answered the fears he hadn't voiced. "I don't talk about you with them."

Inwardly, he was relieved. Outwardly, he just pocketed his wallet and grabbed a condom box from the floor. Tossing it into the bedside trash, he shrugged. "I'm not worried," he lied easily, turning for the door.

"Hey, Orton," Trish called after him. He turned and raised an eyebrow. "You were alright tonight."

He laughed and winked again. "Not so bad yourself, Stratus."

Once he was gone, she rolled over and grabbed a pillow, burying her face. She didn't like him, didn't want to be with him outside of this room, and certainly didn't want to think the word "boyfriend." He felt the same way, and she was okay with that. They were two adults having a consensual relationship. There was nothing wrong with it.

So why was she thinking about Carter now? Why was she seeing his face and knowing that he would be so disappointed in her? And why the hell couldn't she just get over him and move on?

_Because fucking is easy. Love is hard. Being in love fucks everything that's supposed to be good, and not in a good way. You can't fall in love again, Trish. You get over Carter, and that's it. No more. You never let anyone else in. At least, not until you're, like, fifty. Or until you're done with Orton._


	7. Blurring the Lines

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: I don't really have a note, just the disclaimer that I don't own any of the guys, or girls, I mention here. If I did, I would be sunning myself on a beach in Maui right now, not writing a story. Enjoy!

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It was often said that the most successful guys in the business were the ones who used their own personalities inside the ring. The Rock, Stone Cold, Triple H, Shawn Michaels, The Undertaker, John Cena, Batista – all of them displayed elements of their in-ring character in every day life. They just turn the amp to eleven when they got inside the ropes.

But regardless of how real they all tried to keep it, the truth was that every Superstar lived, to a degree, with a split-personality disorder. All of them managed to live somewhere outside of themselves for the fans. And no matter what demons they all faced alone, the struggle for balance was one they shared.

One of the first rules she had learned in the WWE was to be sure to keep her personalities separate. There was in-ring Trish, and there was behind-the-curtain Trish, and the line between the two should never be blurred. The guys who found their careers shortened, and their families waiting in the welfare line, were the ones who couldn't figure out where the ramp ended and real life began. And she had always prided herself on making that distinction pretty well.

In-ring Trish was a total ho with no problem sleeping her way up the ladder, as long as she ended up on top. She quipped at the audience, acted like she was better than everyone, and had nothing nice to say to anybody who would threaten her title.

But out behind-the-curtain Trish had always been everyone's favorite diva for a reason. She was a hard worker, never complaining about storylines or opponents. She was pleasant to everyone, even the people she didn't know, and she always wore a smile. There was never a bad time to ask "real" Trish for an autograph – she didn't mind stopping and talking to anyone who had helped put her where she was.

Until now. Trish slid into the booth across from her friends and mumbled a sheepish apology for being late. For the first time in her career, she wasn't sure which Trish was the real one. After Randy had left her room, her thoughts wouldn't stop churning, keeping her up all night with tortured questions about what she was doing.

"You look like shit," Lita pointed out, pushing a plate of bacon toward her friend.

Trish gave her a withering look. "Thanks," she stated flatly, sliding her sunglasses onto her head. She wasn't hungry, but she knew that abstaining from the meal would only make them ask questions.

As it turned out, Lita didn't need a reason to press an issue, whether it needed to be pressed or not. "Seriously, Trish, you look like you haven't slept in a week." She buttered her toast without looking up, and Trish kept her eyes trained on her plate. Stacy was watching her, she could feel the other set of eyes, but she wasn't about to acknowledge her, either.

"I haven't," she finally admitted, taking a bite of bacon. It tasted more like cardboard against her tongue.

With an eyebrow raised in interest, Lita finally looked up. "Yeah? He's good, right?"

She felt her heart drop in her chest. For a week, she had watched every one of her friends dance around the subject of Randy, a million unasked questions in their stares. She hadn't lied when she told him they didn't talk about him. Because, until that moment, they hadn't.

"He's good," she shrugged apathetically. Reaching for a glass of water, Trish met both of their incredulous stares. "What?"

"He's not good, Trish," Stacy corrected, sincerity emanating from her dark eyes. "He's amazing. He's the best."

Trish rolled her eyes. It was bad enough the kid thought he was that good. But did everyone on the face of the planet have to agree. "Look, I agree, okay?" She threw up her hands in defeat. "He's got game, mad skills, whatever."

Lita looked around the room and then winked at her friend. "He's not here. You can be honest." When Trish rested her elbows on the table and ran her fingers through her hair, the red-head rolled her eyes. "What is it?"

Even after months of not really speaking, Trish felt good knowing that Lita could still read her. Sure, they shared time in the locker room – but it wasn't the same as the way they used to sit and talk for hours. She was glad to find that the bond seemed stronger than the strain she had put on it.

"Can I ask you something?" Lita nodded, as did Stacy. "Is he better than Matt? Better than Test?" She looked at her friends, who exchanged glances and then nodded slowly. "Really? Even though you guys were totally in love with them? Randy's still better?"

Lita cleared her throat, afraid that she was unqualified to answer the question. She had known Randy longer than any of them, and her arrangement with him was hard to describe, at best. "Stace?"

Stacy didn't want to answer questions about Orton, either. She could point out that her relationship with him hadn't been so different than the one with Test. But that would mean admitting that she had been in love with him, and the shame she still felt at her own stupidity wouldn't allow the words to tumble out. Nodding, she picked up her fork and hoped it would be answer enough.

It wasn't. Trish and Lita just watched her eating and waited for more. "Look, I loved Test. But Randy's like, I don't know. He's just," she stopped again. "He's indescribable. The ways that he can make you," there was a sigh as she blushed, "I don't know what it is about him, Trish. But when you tell yourself to stop worrying about what he's thinking, or not thinking, and you just feel what he's doing? It's the most amazing thing in the world."

Snapping her fingers, Trish pointed at her blonde friend. "That's the problem. I can't do that. You guys, for a week, I have tried to shut off my mind and not worry, but I can't do it anymore. Last night, after he left, I just started thinking about how it was with Carter."

"Carter couldn't hold Orton's jock," Lita spat after swallowing a bit of pancake.

Trish's eyes widened at the statement. "I'm sorry? How would you know shit one about Carter's ability to hold anything?"

With another roll of her eyes, the Southern diva shook her head. "I don't have to. Trish, Nobody is as, um, gifted as Randy," she stated pointedly.

It was true, and Trish could nod in concession. But she licked her lips and lifted a strawberry to her mouth pensively. "I'm not saying he's not one of the best ever. I mean, there really isn't much he can't do." She sighed and took another drink of her water. "I'm just not sure that he's the best I've ever had, okay? I mean, say what you want about Carter," she aimed her comment at Lita, "but he fucked me because he loved me. He would do things to me because he wanted me to know that he cared about my pleasure.

"Randy does things so that he can pat himself on the back for gettin' me off." She threw her arms in the air and then sank into the booth, defeated.

Stacy cleared her throat and sipped her juice. She had tried to remain silent, neutral, but it was becoming harder. "Don't act like you're not doing the same thing," she finally accused. Trish looked up but didn't move. "You're not fucking him just to prove that you've still got it? You don't do a little victory dance every time he comes, knowing that you're the best the Legend Killer ever had?"

Trish could hear the jealousy in the young woman's voice, but chose to ignore it. "Of course I am," she admitted. "But that's what I'm saying, Stace. It can be the "almost best" sex I've ever had. I just think it was better with Carter. Is it so bad that I like a little side of heart with my sixty-nine-ing?"

Lita nearly spit her coffee across the table. "Sorry," she apologized quickly. The statement was so sincere, so dryly delivered, that it struck her as funny, but she recovered and wiped her mouth as though nothing had happened. "Look, Trish, for as long as I've known you, you've been in love with the idea of being in love. Even when you're fucking around with randoms, you're thinking about the day you meet the right one and it all just clicks." Reaching a hand out, she rested it on top of Trish's. "The sooner you realize Randy's not gonna be that guy – that he's not even capable of being that guy – the easier its going to be for you to just lay back and enjoy it."

With a heavy sigh, she changed the subject and the three slipped back into "chick athlete" mode. They discussed hockey, football, and the upcoming Royal Rumble. Trish managed to push the entire Randy situation out of her head, chalking it up to PMS or something equally cliché.

After twenty more minutes, they paid their bill and started for the parking lot. "What is that?" Stacy asked, her eyes scanning her purse for the source of a loud beeping.

Trish reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. "It's the only way I hear it," she blushed as she lifted her bag into the car with one hand held the phone to the ear with the other. "Hello?"

"Trish?"

There was only one thing that could have made her situation with Randy even more confusing. "Carter. What's up?"

* * *

_I just wanted to throw a quick note in here to ask you guys a question. I had an idea today for Cena-centric fic, and I want to start it after I finish this one. He's the only one of my "Trifecta of Sexy" that hasn't starred in a longer fic yet, and I finally have an idea. My question is this: Do you guys wanna see him with Trish? Or is there another diva that you think would be hotter? I haven't written anything starring anyone else before, but I'd be willing to try, if there's a demand for it._


	8. A Little Change of Plans

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: And another one? What the hell? I should not be left alone to my own devices on a Saturday night, I can tell you that much. Alright - so I have not purchased any WWE Superstars in the last hour, so I still don't own the ones you'll meet on this leg of the journey. Enjoy!

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_

He was used to having Trish on the brain most of the time, but Randy could honestly say that it had been more than a week since she dominated his thoughts. Getting to her room and fucking her senseless was always somewhere on his To Do list, but she had stopped being such a damned obsession.

Until tonight. She had barely given him a wave and a key to her room before slipping out of site at the arena. And then she hadn't shown up at the club with the rest of the crew. As he walked the hall of the hotel, searching for the number to his corresponding key-card, he tried to tell himself it was no big deal. Maybe she'd had a last-minute meeting with Vince after the show, or during it. Maybe she was trying to focus on her match and didn't have time to make out in his dressing room, as had become their custom over the last ten days.

He was Randy Orton, dammit. He didn't need to worry about whether or not Trish was losing interest in him. If she was, so the fuck what? He hadn't tapped Ashley yet – and there were plenty of hot women in Atlanta, just ripe for the picking. He didn't need her. He didn't need anybody. There were always fall backs. Always.

So why did his heart lift a little in his chest when he found her door and the light on the lock turned green? Why did he feel a sense of relief when he heard the television inside and the sound of her laughter? Why did he get just a little harder knowing he would be buried deep inside her in a few minutes?

And why did his stomach sink to his toes when he pushed the door open and found her sitting on the bed with that skinny-ass punk she was supposed to have broken up with? Clearing his throat, he noted the guilty expression on her face. "I'm a little early," he acknowledged, checking his watch.

Trish shook her head and stood quickly, ignoring Carter's questioning glance. With her hands around Randy's arm, she pushed him into the hallway and pulled the door closed. "So, Carter showed up this afternoon," she started.

"I can see that." Randy did everything he could to suppress the angry feelings in his gut. So what if her boyfriend was back? He didn't care if they got engaged and lived happily-ever-after. But if she cut him off because of it, he was going to be livid.

Trish searched her head for some way to explain everything. "He has an interview with Vince tomorrow, to work on the production crew," she bit her lip and looked up through thick lashes at the man before her.

Randy rolled his eyes and put a hand on her hip. "Look, I don't care why he's here, Trish. Really," he nodded as she looked away guiltily. "Is he staying with you?" She nodded. "Okay then," he cleared his throat and looked down the hall for some sort of escape. This is why he didn't bother with women after a time or two – things got awkward and he didn't know what to say.

She was at a loss, too. With a palm on his chest, she tried to get his attention again. What the fuck did he care if Carter was back or not? They weren't in a relationship. "It's just for tonight," she started. He shrugged and took a step back. "I could come down to your room after he goes to sleep," she suggested, unsure of why.

Things with Carter had gone from complicated to something far worse in less than twenty-four hours. After his phone call the day before, she had thrown up in the hotel parking lot. He missed her – Candy was history, and he knew that Trish was the woman he was supposed to be with. He understood that she needed to see he had changed, so he was meeting up with the crew in Atlanta and interviewing for a position with the production staff. Things were going to be better – they could be together, and she could see that he was really interested in growing up and giving her the life she deserved.

She had told him that everything wasn't going to go back to the way it was. Maybe he had changed, and she hoped so, but she wasn't going to jump back into whatever they had been, only to be disappointed again a month down the road. It was going to take time, and he was going to have to give her some space. Of course, his idea of space seemed to be the middle of her king-sized hotel bed, but she couldn't just kick him out. He couldn't afford his own room, and she couldn't let him sleep in his car the night before a big interview.

"Ya know what?" Randy stepped back from Trish's touch and smiled. "You go do what you gotta do, okay?" He winked and touched her cheek softly. "We'll hook up again when he's gone."

In less than a day, her hardened shell had cracked before his very eyes. She wasn't the vixen anymore, the one who had teased and taunted him every night. She wasn't the chick who turned his head around. Suddenly, she was a real woman, with feelings and emotions, and issues that he wanted nothing to do with.

Trish reached out and grabbed his hand when he turned to go. Carter had been around for less than twelve hours, and she could already feel that woman Randy had awakened falling back to sleep. It was that feeling, more than him, that she was trying to hold on to.

With her hands clasped behind his neck, she jumped into his arms, holding on as he stumbled back against the wall. "I'll make it up to you," she whispered, grasping his earlobe between her teeth.

He just groaned when she ran her nails over his hair, starting at his neckline and stopping at his brow. When her hands rested on his cheeks and she shoved her tongue into his mouth, he was lost. Was it wrong to throw her down on the floor and just fuck her quick?

When she jumped down and smacked his ass, he smiled and nodded. She still wanted him – and that was enough to make him okay with taking a night off. Of course, now he had a raging hard on and a lobby full of groupies to go select from. It would be good for him to take a night off from Trish, to get her off his mind a little bit.

As he pushed the button and waited for elevator, the overwhelming scent of Vanilla filled his nose. Turning, he smiled down at the blonde waiting next to him. "You goin' up?" he asked as the bell sounded and the thick doors slid open. "Or do you prefer goin' down?"

Ashley blushed as she stepped into the elevator behind him. _She's cute_, Randy thought, taking a moment to look her petite body over. _Tiny. Always good_. Licking his lips when she caught him staring, he watched her blush again.

Leaning against the wall of the elevator, Ashley rolled her eyes and hooked her thumbs through the belt loops of her tight jeans. "Don't look at me like that, Orton," she warned, sounding about as threatening as a Chihuahua in a knitted sweater. "I've heard stories about you."

He nodded proudly, his gaze drifted to the thin, white tank top she was wearing. It declared her a Future Porn Star, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "And what have you heard, Sweetheart?"

She leaned her head back and shot him an amused smile. "They say you're trouble."

Randy pushed off the opposite wall and walked toward her, stopping just inches from contact, and twirling a strand of her blonde hair around his finger. "Is that right?" She giggled flirtatiously and nodded. "Well, you look like a girl who might could use a little trouble, Ashley."

The blush in her naïve cheeks deepened, and he heard her breath hitch, as he dropped her hair and ran his fingers down her bare arm. "I think maybe I could," she managed to choke out.

Inside, he was dying. _Jesus, she's not even trying to resist_. "Tell you what," he lowered his voice and took another step, her face nearly buried in his chest. "You take me to your room, and we'll see what kinda trouble we can get into." It was more of a command than a question, but he could tell she didn't mind.

Biting her lip, Ashley tried to look away. His gaze was hypnotic. "I'm sharing a room with Maria," she whispered disappointedly. "But we could go to yours?"

He almost laughed at her. Sure, hotel rooms weren't the same as his own private sanctuary at home, but it was close enough. At least for her. "My room's a mess," he lied. Pretending to think, he ran his index finger over her collarbone and then started toward her cleavage. "Are you an open-minded girl, Ashley?" She nodded and, if possible, blushed even deeper. "Then why don't we go to your room, and get started. If Maria comes back? We'll just invite her to join us. How's that?"

He pushed the "door close" button when they reached the ground floor, and headed up again. He couldn't believe how easily she had agreed. Actually, he could believe it. They used to be that easy all the time. But being with Trish had sharpened his instincts, and he found himself disappointed with the effortless kill.

_Goddamit, Orton, stop thinkin' about fuckin' Trish. She is not worth all this time in your head. You got a fine-ass girl on your arm, ready to do whatever you want her to do. This one you can play like a fiddle. You're the only one playing mind games here – no busting your ass to come up short again. Just take it as a freebie and enjoy it. You. Don't. Need. Trish._


	9. It's Getting Complicated

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: Thanks again for the great reviews! You guys are the coolest. You know I'm slow to update when there's a PPV on, and since I was watchin' SummerSlam while writing this - I hope it still makes sense. I don't own 'em. Enjoy!

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_

Randy was the kind of guy who was just good at everything he tried. He was a champ in the ring. He was the master with women. And he was no slouch when it came to throwing a rager, either. So when the WWE rolled into St. Louis for the Royal Rumble, he went balls out in showing his coworkers, and some of his local friends, exactly what a party was supposed to look like.

By the time Trish arrived, with Dave, Victoria, Edge, Lita, Christy, and Stacy, things were in full swing. The front yard was packed with cars, and a few mingling party-goers, while the heavy bass of a hip-hop beat spilled out through the open windows and doors. If his neighbors minded the noise, they weren't complaining.

"So, Stace," Trish slung her arm around her friend's waist and fell behind the rest of the group. "What's goin' on with you and John?"

Stacy blushed and looked at her feet, wishing she had a good answer to that question. "Um," she stuttered, stopping in the middle of the driveway. "I don't know for sure," she admitted with a smirk. "I think we're just friends."

"Ya think?" Trish smiled to herself. She had seen the pair together on more than one occasion, and to say they looked 'friendly' was an understatement.

Clearing her throat, Stacy ran her thin hands over her little skirt and then leveled Trish with a glare. "Look, I like hangin' out with him and we have fun. But I'm just not sure I'm into him that way, ya know?" When Trish raised an eyebrow, Stacy let her shoulders shrug. She had never been good at being defiant. "I want to like him, Trish. I really do want to have feelings for him. I mean, you know the guy, right?" She waited for her friend to nod. "He's great, and he's funny, and I totally have a blast with him. Not to mention the fact that he's beyond smokin' hot."

The look on Stacy's face was one of a girl deeply frustrated at herself for not feeling the way she thought she was supposed to be feeling. It was the expression of a woman who didn't understand why her head and her heart weren't on the same page. It was the same air Trish had whenever Carter's name had come up in the last week.

His interview with Vince had gone well. He had been charming, professional, and amusing – everything he needed to be to secure a job with the company. But before hiring the young man, Vince wanted to "check his references," i.e. talk to Trish about it. He had asked her, point blank, what she thought about hiring Carter to travel with the crew.

"_He really seems to want this," Trish answered honestly, focusing on the people bustling around backstage, more than her boss._

_Vince crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Trish until the young woman met his eye. "Trish, I got no problem with hiring the guy. He seems enthusiastic about the job, and he knows his way around this place, from all the traveling he's done with you. I'm not worried about him. I'm worried about you."_

_She looked into his searing eyes and let her shoulders sag, shoving her hands into her pockets. "Vince, I know you don't really give a damn about our personal lives," she started._

_But he put a comforting hand on her shoulder and smiled, kind of. "I care about it when it affects your professional life. And if having this guy around is going to be a distraction to my Women's Champion, then I can't hire him." _

She wanted to say that their past together didn't matter. She wanted Carter to get a job that he really seemed interested in. More than anything, she wanted to see that he had changed so that they could be together again. But something in her gut stopped her from assuring Vince that it would fine to bring him on. Something made her reconsider, and at the last moment, she shook her head sadly.

_"The final decision is yours, of course," she started, her heart pounding as she said the words she knew she would second-guess a million times. "But I can't promise you that it won't be a distraction."_

Nearly a week later, Vince had yet to make his final decision, but Trish was glad that Carter had gone back home to Toronto to wait for an answer. She couldn't explain the shift that had taken place in their relationship over a few days, but she no longer saw him as her standard for happiness. She wasn't saddened by the idea of never getting back together with him. And she couldn't bring herself to shed a single tear over what she had done.

"Can we go inside now?" Stacy asked, breaking into her friend's thoughts. "It's fuckin' cold out here."

Trish agreed and followed the taller diva into the house. There was alcohol, food, and people everywhere she turned. A couple of girls in stilettos, and not much else, danced on platforms in the living room, causing Trish to roll her eyes. She hadn't seen Randy much in the last six days, but she had heard the stories.

He had been with Ashley and Maria, a couple of groupies, and a chick from the front office since leaving her in the hallway that night. At first, the news hadn't bothered Trish that much, and it certainly hadn't surprised her. She had known he would hit Ashley sooner or later, and she hadn't really been available for much "alone" time since Carter arrived.

But the more she thought about it, the more she found herself missing him. She missed his warm skin against hers, and the primal grunt that came from somewhere deep inside his throat. She missed the challenge of contorting her body into some insane position just to see the impressed look on his face. She missed the cocky-ass grin he always tried to suppress when he thought of something that would rock her world.

"Hey, Stranger," a voice sounded from behind her as a plastic cup dropped into her line of vision. "Sex on the beach. Just the way you like it."

"Dirty?" she asked, turning to smirk at Christian.

He cocked his head and considered her delicate features for a moment. "How you been?"

Their on-screen relationship had been a disaster, but Trish could honestly say that her fellow Canadian was one of her favorite people behind the scenes. His smile, at least for her, was always genuine. "Better than you, I'd say," she smiled sympathetically. Christian's frustrations with Creative, and with his minimal role in the company, had been well-documented as of late, and anyone on the inside knew they'd been going on for awhile.

But, in typical Captain Charisma fashion, he shrugged it off and gave her a grin. "Awe, it's all good. Ya know you can't be mad at a party like this, right?" Trish moved to his side and leaned against the wall, her shoulder brushing against his bicep as her eyes swept the crowd. "Your boy sure can throw it down, huh?"

The words felt like a kick in the gut as Trish located Randy on the floor, towering above a group of barely-clothed, over-inflated bimbos she didn't recognize. "He's not my boy," she insisted.

With a raised eyebrow, Christian drank from his own cup and then nodded. "That's not the word around the locker room, Sweetie."

Trish shrugged and continued watching Randy work his adoring fans. It should have been a disgusting display, but he was so cool, calm, and collected that she found herself smiling. "What's the rumor?" she asked, though she didn't really care. It wouldn't be the first time she had been locker room fodder, and probably not the last.

"You guys are the hottest thing since Pam and Tommy Lee, baby. Everybody's talkin' about it." He turned his body slightly and rested his shoulder against the wall, smiling down on his friend. "You killed the legend of Randy Orton."

She rolled her eyes and took another drink, nodding to the host of the party, who was now dancing on a platform with one of the strippers. "Looks dead, doesn't he?" she asked.

But Christian just let out a "hmphh" and kept his gaze on her. "He's only with them because he's pissed that you went back to your boyfriend or whatever. He doesn't take rejection well," he laughed to himself. It wasn't that he disliked Orton or anything. It was just funny to see someone so used to getting their own way, rejected for once.

"Yeah, well, you can take this to the message boards or whatever, okay?" She raised an eyebrow at Christian and finished her drink in one chug. "Orton is not my 'boy.' We don't talk. We don't share little nicknames, like 'pooky' and 'snuggle bunny.' We don't spoon after a long night of candle-lit love making. We fuck. That's it. That's all it will ever be. Sorry to all of you hopeless romantics, but there is no happily-ever-after here. There is hard fucking and sweating and waking up alone. That's it."

Pushing off the wall, she sat her cup down, grabbed another one off a near-by tray, and made her way onto the dance floor. She didn't care what people were saying. She didn't care what they were thinking. At the moment, all she cared about was the drink in her hand and the beat of the music. The rest would work itself out.

XXX

She had no idea, after nearly four hours, if Randy even knew she was there. He was a great party host, attending to nearly everyone, and making sure that the music never stopped pounding, and the drinks never stopped flowing. But between that, and the incessant flirting he was doing, there was no time for Trish.

She kept herself busy without him, dancing with friends half the night, and strangers the other half. But now she was feeling light-headed and irritated, mostly because she was so damn hot and sweaty. St. Louis was far from tropical in January, but the number of bodies crammed into his house made it hotter than Spring Break in Cancun.

The fact that she had no ride home wasn't helping her mood any. Now that nearly all of the attendants had gone home, she sank to the couch, pushing empty cups and plates out of her way, and sulked. They hadn't even told her they were leaving, and by the time she realized they were gone, there was no one left to ask for a lift. All she could do was wait for Randy to materialize and ask him.

Without the music, and the screeches of laughter, and the shouts across the room, the house seemed eerily silent. A catering crew cleaned around her, but Trish let her eyes drift close and welcomed the breeze coming off the Missouri river in his backyard.

"So," Randy's deep whisper pulled her out of the land between dreams and reality, "you have fun?"

Under heavily lidded eyes, Trish smiled as his face came into focus. Crouched on the floor before her, his hands rested on her thighs, massaging her tense muscles. "Hey, you," she started to sit up.

But Randy shook his head and bent, lifting her into his arms. "Come on."

Carrying her up the stairs, the scurrying sounds of the caterers faded. He had watched her from afar all evening, teasing and arousing every man within arms reach. It had taken everything in him to stand his ground, not to drag her away and have her right then. She had every right to dance with anyone she pleased, and so did he.

But he had missed her. A week without touching her, without kissing her, without being inside her, was wearing on him more than he wanted to admit. He missed the defiant glares she would throw him when he suggested something she wasn't sure he could deliver. He missed the giggle that escaped her throat when he inadvertently tickled her most sensitive spots. He missed the way she tightened around him, and her eyes rolled back, when she just couldn't hold back anymore.

He had never been one to compare women. They all had their pros and cons, and he was pretty adept at putting one out of his mind before starting on another. But Ashley's skin wasn't as soft as Trish's. Maria's giggle wasn't as alluring. The stripper's implants weren't as pliable as Trish's. The groupie's voice wasn't as desparate or throaty when she screamed his name. And the chick from management wasn't nearly as tight and inviting.

Trish rested her head against his shoulder as he moved down the hall. "Orton?"

Her voice was timid and dripping with exhaustion. "Hmm?" Even drenched in sweat, she smelled like fruit and flowers.

"My ride left me," she told him, pressing a kiss to his neck instinctually.

Randy stiffened. How in the hell did she do that? One kiss, barely an echo of contact, and he was hard as a rock and ready to have her. "I know," he answered.

Realization hit her and she giggled against his skin. "You're a sneaky bastard," she slurred, the alcohol and fatigue hitting at the same time.

Laughing to himself, he pushed the door of his bedroom opened with his shoulder. For the first time in his life, he wanted a woman in his bed. He wanted Trish in his bed. In his mind, she had earned the right to be there. She wasn't just the best he'd ever had –she was his hero. The things she had taught him, the lessons he had learned with her, would make him better for anyone he encountered in the future. And this was his thank-you.

Rolling her onto the bed, he began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes never leaving the tiny woman in the middle of his large mattress. "Is this your bed?" she asked groggily, running her hands over the soft comforter. He just nodded and shrugged the fabric off his shoulders. "It's nice."

Once he had dropped his pants to the floor, he moved to her and reached for her belt. "You too drunk for this?" he asked with a smirk.

Trish shook her head. "Let me tell you one thing about Trish Stratus," she held up a finger and then crinkled her nose. "I'm never too drunk, too grouchy, too unprepared," shaking her head again, she laughed. "Wait, I'm missing one."

He bit his lip and pulled her pants off in one motion. "Doesn't matter," he smiled, crawling over her on the bed and resting his hands on her cheeks.

She licked her lips in anticipation, her head spinning. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he was different. Something about the way he looked at her, and talked to her, and touched her was different. His voice was soft, and his hands were gentle. His eyes held something other than raw hunger, almost like adoration, or even respect.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked finally.

Randy shook his head and lowered his face to her hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth to stop the questions. He had intended to tear her clothes off, throw her down, and fuck her until she couldn't walk straight. Instead, he found himself savoring every inch of her bronzed body, licking and sucking on her skin as she slowly gave herself over.

His stomach was jumping with nerves, and he chalked it up to the first-time experience. This was new for him, letting someone in this far. She probably had no idea how much it meant to be on this bed, in this room. She couldn't possibly understand what it meant to him. And he wasn't ever going to tell her.

For one night, he would indulge this one curiosity. He would have her in the one place he'd never had anyone else – and then he would take her back to her hotel and forget it ever happened.


	10. Too injured?

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: Thanks for all the awesome reviews again! You guys just keep sending me such "mad props" and I keep thinking I'm not worthy. Anyway, thanks for reading it, and loving it. I appreciate it. I don't own Randy, Trish, or any other person mentioned here. Enjoy!

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As she reached for the door knob, she cast one last fleeting glance over her shoulder. In his sleep, he looked so innocent, so peaceful. There were no lines on his young face, and the faint traces of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. After ten minutes of watching him like that, she had decided he looked like the kind of man she could easily fall in love with.

If she was the kind of girl who fell in love. But she wasn't – not anymore. And as Trish left his room quietly, she reminded herself that this was what she wanted. No strings, no promises, and no commitment. Just straight up sex and fun. This is how it was supposed to be.

"You miss curfew or somethin'?"

The sound of his voice in the midnight stillness cause Trish to jump, holding her heart as she met his gaze. "Hey." Running a nervous hand through her hair, she giggled slightly and leaned against the wall, watching him limp toward her. "How are you feeling?"

Randy cringed and leaned his weight against the frame of his room door. "I been better," he admitted, grateful for the opportunity to stop hobbling for a second. The move he had tried against Kane was fairly routine. The grotesque angle at which he had fallen wasn't.

Trish nodded, forcing herself to meet his eyes. She wasn't doing anything wrong. So why did she feel guilty that he had caught her? "I guess," she conceded, trying her best to still her heart and catch her breath. "So, I thought they'd keep you overnight."

He swept his eyes over her wrinkled clothing and her tangled hair with a smirk. _I can see that_, he thought, and then shook himself of the unexpected emotion in his gut. _Damn drugs_. "They tried," he admitted, running his hand over his hair. They said only his knee was sprained, but the rest of his body wasn't feelin' so happy at the moment, either. "But I didn't really feel like trusting my recovery to a hillbilly hospital with three doctors on call, ya know?"

Finally calming down a bit, she cleared her throat and pushed off the wall. "So, do you need me to get you anything?" She looked up through thick lashes as she approached. "I could run you a bath? Put you to bed?"

When she finally reached him, resting one hand on his belt while the other walked up his chest, Randy let out a groan. "There's nothing I would like more," he smiled slightly, and then cringed. In an attempt to shift his body and pull her closer, daggers of pain shot through his knee and up his thigh, nearly bringing him to tears. "But, for the first time in my life, I don't think my body's gonna be up for it."

Biting her lip, Trish suppressed a giggle. He promised to never be too drunk, too tired, too grouchy, or too unprepared. Too injured had never made the list. "Alright," she scratched her nails back down his chest and threw a wink at him. "Well, I'm gonna head to bed, then."

"Looks like ya already been there." The words were out of his mouth before he could reign them back in. He wasn't in any condition to stand in the hall and tease her, but he just couldn't let her walk away without the last word.

Trish rolled her eyes. Like he had any right to talk. "Yeah, well, now I'ma get some sleep. In **my** bed. Alone," she informed him.

She turned, and Randy raised an eyebrow, his attention immediately drawn to her perfect ass in those tight jeans. "John wear ya out, did he?"

Turning, she raised an eyebrow, fighting like hell to keep the guilt at bay. Sure, she had every right to fuck whoever she pleased, but his best friend seemed a little cruel. Of course, it hadn't stopped him from banging Lita, Stacy, Victoria, and everyone else Trish considered a friend over the years, either. "I could use some rest," was all she admitted.

Before Randy could retaliate, his knee gave way, and he buckled. Trish was at his side in an instant, slinging his arm over her shoulder and holding out a hand. "Give me your key," she insisted.

Randy bit his lip, demanded that the pain subside, and tried to stand on his own. "I'm fine," he insisted.

Trish grabbed the key out of his hand and slid it into the lock. "Right." Once they were inside, she kicked the door shut and moved slowly toward the bed. She had felt him collapse on top of her more times than she could count, but tonight he seemed heavy. "You been hittin' the 'roids, Orton?" she asked with a grunt.

He wanted to tell her that the dead weight he was at that moment was a little different than post-orgasm weight, but he didn't answer, only lead her to the bed and fell to the mattress, trapping Trish under his left side.

"Jesus!" she shrieked. "Are you tryin' to kill me?"

Randy rolled his eyes, in far too much pain to find her remotely amusing. "You're the one who just had to help," he pointed out, grabbing his knee as the throbbing continued.

"Can you take you pants off?" she asked, her face twisted with concern.

And, even writhing in agony, he couldn't resist. "Probably. But I know how much you love doin' that."

She groaned and sank to her knees, tugging at the hem of his warm-up pants. "Fine. But you're the one who said you're not in the mood," she pointed out.

"I said I didn't think my body was up to fucking you right now. I would never say I wasn't in the mood," Randy corrected. "Because seein' you on your knees like that?" He dropped the statement when she shot him a "don't start" glare.

"You are unbelievable," Trish muttered, her tone anything but amused. She was tired, not feeling one hundred percent good about herself, and didn't want to put up with bull shit that would get her nowhere. "Now," she said loudly, standing and running her hands down her pants. "Do you need anything else? Honestly?"

Randy licked his lips and thought. He wasn't a guy who asked people for anything. Ever. If he had to drag himself down the hall on one bad leg to get ice or something equally miniscule, he would do it. He was not interested in being helped. But she seemed so intent on doing something. And he found himself wanting to make her feel useful.

"Um, can you get my portable dvd player out of my bag?" he pointed to the floor.

Trish went to his bag and slid the zipper open. His portable was right on top, along with several dvd's and even more condom boxes. _All the essentials for an Orton road trip_, she assumed. "Do you want anything specifically?" she asked, her back still turned.

Watching her, crouched low over his bag, Randy felt his gut rumble. Her pants were sliding down on her hips, and her back was perfectly straight, as though she'd practiced her posture for years. Her lines were flawless – she really was the perfect specimen of a woman.

"Randy?"

The butterflies in his stomach did somersaults when she said his name. She rarely, if ever, said his first name. Even when she came, she always called him Orton. "Hmm?" he asked.

Trish turned and held up three movie cases. "What do you want to watch?"

_You. Like that. Don't move._ He shrugged and pointed at all three. "Whichever. It's not like I'm gonna stay awake," he reasoned.

Carrying everything back to the bed, she dropped them at his side. "Do you want me to plug the chord in? Or is the battery charged?" He motioned for the power chord. The battery was fine, but in order to plug it in, she had to bend over him. Maybe he couldn't eat anything, but it wouldn't stop him from looking over the buffet.

Leaning her body across his lap, she stuck the chord into the wall. She knew full well what he was trying to do, and she was more than happy to give him a show. Sliding forward slightly, and then dragging her nails across the bed, she arched her back.. It was graceful, and all too stripper-like. Everything Randy loved.

Without hesitation, he slid his hands over the curve of her ass, groaning and biting his lip as she held it there for him. "You're killin' me," he finally admitted, smacking her lightly as she raised up on her knees and then crawled back to the edge of the bed. To make matters worse, she just put her index finger in her mouth, held his eyes seductively, and started backing out of the room. "Oh, come on," he whined.

Trish shrugged innocently. Maybe the only thing more fun than teasing Orton as foreplay, was teasing him while knowing he couldn't do anything about it. "What?" she asked, her voice dripping with mock naiveté.

Randy held a hand out to her. "Ya know what." He accused and sat the dvd player to the side. "Fuck the pain. Come here."

She wanted to hold out – to tell him that they shouldn't. She really didn't want him to hurt himself anymore. But the idea of him being willing to fight through it just to be with her made her ego swell, and she couldn't say "no." Truth be told, she was having a harder and harder time saying "no" to him about anything.


	11. Pain Is an Emotion, Too

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: So, this chapter was supposed to go along with the last one, but I thought they stood better as separate chapters. Plus, I'm gonna be out of town on business for a few days, so I won't be able to update. (And to answer **Stratusfied**, I'm a Graphic Design Engineer) Anyway, I just thought I'd give ya a two-fer to get you through until Thursday or Friday. Hope you enjoy!

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She was supposed to be gone by now. He had been asleep for more than an hour, and she was supposed to have slipped quietly into the night already. His arm was around her waist, but she could have rolled off with no fear of waking him. The drugs had taken him under, and he wasn't so much as stirring.

But Trish was mesmerized, held in place by a fascination with his shoulder. The scars from two past surgeries wove together there, barely noticeable against the bronzed back drop of his skin. She was sure that make up covered them for television every week, or that they were invisible to the camera, but she thought it was a shame.

They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen. He called his tattoos "art," but Trish thought they paled in comparison to those two precision lines, carefully crafted by a physician's skilled hand on the canvas of his flawless body. It wasn't so much the scars themselves, but what they represented, that kept her there as dawn broke outside the window.

They might fade over time, but they would never go away, those scars. They would rest against his skin forever, constant reminders of past agony that had put him out of commission, kept him from the one thing he'd always wanted. They would permanently stare back at him in the mirror, daring him to forget the times when his dreams had been weaker than the physical world in which he lived and fought. They would remind him that he was still mortal, that life still hurts sometimes, even when he thought he was better than the pain.

She was so taken in by those scars that she didn't feel him finally start to stir, trying to take back his arm. "Trish?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion.

Her hypnosis broken, she looked up into his drowsy eyes and bit her lip, waiting for him to ask what the hell she was still doing there. She waited for the tongue-lashing, for him to tell her she was breaking all the rules, but it didn't come. He just stared back at her, a slight tinge of perplexity in his crystal eyes.

"Your scars are beautiful," was all she managed to say as she raised her hand again and ran her fingers over them, for what seemed like the millionth time in the last few hours.

He nodded and chuckled, unsure if this was a dream. It surely didn't seem real. "Um, yeah," he whispered, unwilling to crack the stillness of the morning. "You like those, you should see the ones inside."

Trish bit her lip and struggled to recline her body, resting her head on her palm as she supported her weight on her elbow. "What do you mean?"

Randy cleared his throat and looked over at the clock. It was nearly seven in the morning. Why was she still in his room? And what the hell was she talking about his scars for? "Just that the tissue inside, all the scar tissue? It's way more impressive than those two little things." This had to be the dumbest conversation he'd ever had with a girl. Especially after sex. This is why he didn't invite them to his room, and why he never woke up next to them.

Trish touched the scars again, seemingly unable to pull her hand away. "Do they hurt?"

He grunted. No, but his knee hurt like a fuckin' son of a bitch. "Um, not really," he answered honestly, trying to move his leg a little bit. Was it paralyzed?

Trish felt him stirring beneath the covers and ran her foot past his calf, rubbing it gently over his knee in an attempt to get his blood flowing again. She understood how it felt to wake up with a sprained muscle, and the stiffness was not the same happy stiffness he was probably used to waking up with.

He wanted to thank her for the gesture, but the only place his blood was now flowing was not his knee. Her soft skin against his was the ideal wake-up call, and he wanted to roll her over and shut her up about it stupid scars and imperfections. Instead, he let his eyes drift shut. And then he answered her stupid, fuckin' question. "Sometimes it tightens up on me," he referred to his shoulder. "Sometimes I can't raise it as high as I used to."

She licked her lips and then pressed them to the lines. He groaned "But it's good as new, right?" she asked.

Randy shrugged. If she was gonna keep that up, he'd talk about whatever the fuck she wanted. "Um, doctors say it'll never be one hundred percent," he sighed as she straddled his thighs and moved her kisses from his shoulder to his collarbone, sweeping her tongue across his throat. "I've done too much damage," he gasped as she raised up and lowered herself onto his morning erection.

"Keep talking," Trish commanded, her voice deep in his ear as she started to rotate her hips and then concentrated on his left nipple.

"I'll never have the same power," he grunted, gripping her hips in his hands. But Trish laced her fingers with his and stretched his arms over his head, riding him at her own pace. "I can't really," he stopped and gasped as she leaned over him, her breasts inches from his face. "You are so fuckin' evil," he groaned, jutting his tongue out, in hopes of just tasting something, any part, of her baby-soft skin. "I can't really use it like I used to," he referred back to his goddamned shoulder when she slowed down again and sat up, her fingernails scraping his chest.

Returning his hands to her hips, Randy tried to brace his bad leg against the bed and thrust upward. He needed to be deeper, further inside of her. He needed to be closer to her. The story of his life lately seemed to be just that – he needed more of Trish.

Trish tilted her head back and allowed her body to feel his long, driving strokes. With one palm on his lower belly and the other behind her on his leg, she allowed herself to stop, as Stacy put it, worrying about what he was thinking, and just feel what he was doing. And what he was doing was the most amazing fucking thing anyone had ever done. This was, without a doubt, the best sex of her entire life.

And Randy could see it. It wasn't planned, and it wasn't anything extraordinary. He hadn't pulled out any kung-fu style moves or tried any porn star-like maneuvers. But she was in a pure, unadulterated state of bliss. It was the moment he'd been waiting for – the one when she gave herself over to him completely.

And it over as soon as they both came. Trish climbed off the bed, gathering her clothes such a hurry, Randy wondered if it wasn't a dream. "What the fuck, Trish?"

She turned, tearing her shirt in her haste to pull it over her head. "What do you want, Orton? Huh?" She zipped her pants and shoveled her hair out of her face. "You want me to stay and cuddle for awhile?" Biting her lip, she cursed herself for getting so carried away, for letting him have her like that. "You finally did it, Champ," she spat bitterly. "You finally found the combination to Trish Stratus. Congratulations." Sliding her flip-flops on, she forced back the tears that were threatening to fall. "You got what you wanted."

When the door slammed, Randy slumped against the headboard, his body still feeling the effects of that encounter. _Then shouldn't I feel good about it? _

Trish managed to make it back to her room before the dam burst and her uncontrollable sobs took her over.

_"Sometimes it tightens up on me."_

_"Sometimes I can't raise it as high as I used to."_

_". . . it'll never be one hundred percent."_

_"I've done too much damage."_

_"I can't really use it like I used to."_

While his scars, his damage, bore no philosophical metaphor to him, she had seen him as someone else broken, and torn beyond repair, just as she had felt for months. When she had told Stacy and Lita that she couldn't have the "best sex ever" with someone she wasn't emotionally attached to, she had been referring to love. But she had been wrong. It certainly wasn't love with Orton. It was the briefest shared understanding of deep, unseen pain that connected her to him more soundly than she had ever been to Carter, or anyone else.

And now, it was over.


	12. 90 Is Better than 85

**Scar Tissue**

_A/N: So, this is it, Kiddies. The final chapter of Scar Tissue. I left it open on purpose. Maybe I'll do a sequel someday, who knows? But I hope you've enjoyed it half as much as I've enjoyed writing it for you, and getting your kick-ass reviews. Thanks for stickin' with me, and I promise to have something new for you soon. I don't own Randy or Trish. I own Carter, but I'm thinking about returning him for store-credit. Enjoy!

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She could still remember the day Carter brought home the platinum and chrome-plated Harley Davidson. Pride emanated from his angular features as he held the keys to her and waited for a response.

"_Are you out of your fucking mind?" she screeched, staring at the silver machine before her. "You don't have that kind of money, Carter." His smile faded and his shoulders drooped, but she just crossed her arms and gave him a firm glare. "I don't even know how to ride one those things."_

_The smile returned, the kind that lit up his whole face. "You can learn. Trish, baby, you can learn anything you put your mind to. And this way – we can take weekend trips, ya know? It's way more gas efficient than your Caddy, and we can just pack a bag and take off." With his hands on her shoulders, he gave her the puppy dog eyes. "Come on, Baby. It's gonna be so great. You'll see."_

She had huffed, and tried to stay mad, but the look on his face was priceless. So childlike and eager to give her something bigger than she expected, a gift like the ones she so often gave him. So she had taken the keys from him and determined to learn how to ride one.

Two years later, she couldn't imagine how she had ever lived without it. They had never really taken one of those weekend trips. But she had found other ways to make use of the bike, letting out her aggression and clearing her mind as she zipped effortlessly through the Connecticut countryside.

Birds were singing in the trees as she zoomed along, completely intent on forgetting everyone and everything. There picturesque sky was filled with fluffy, white clouds, shaped like dolphins and princesses. Spring had just arrived, and it was evident all around her. She barely noticed, though, as she focused on the road and avoided gravel and fallen branches.

More than a month ago, she had left Randy's room, never to look back. At least, that's what she hoped they believed. Truthfully, that morning was in her dreams every night as she drifted off, and again in her mind when she faced another day. Seeing him at every arena, every signing, every press conference, wasn't helping. Neither was that look of confusion and hurt that he kept shooting her.

She assumed that he had moved on, but decided against asking anyone, for fear that it would make her look like she cared. He was no longer in her bed, but he was soundly in her brain, no matter how hard she tried to expel him. The sex was good, but it couldn't have been that good. And if she told herself enough, she would believe it.

Not that she believed much of anything anymore. Every time she thought she had her life figured it out, something unreasonably ridiculous happened and she found herself spiraling toward the ground again. If it wasn't the unexpectedness of perfect sex with Randy, then it was the unexpectedness of Carter's latest visit, two weeks earlier.

_Pulling her car into the driveway, Trish breathed a sigh of relief. She had been to a lot of exotic locations in her lifetime, but nothing seemed like a better vacation in that moment than sleeping in her own bed and tuning out the rest of the world._

_Until she saw him, sitting on the front steps, his head in his hands, waiting. Waiting for her. He watched as she pulled her suitcase out of the car, and stood to meet her on the sidewalk. "Hey."_

_She shook her head and rolled her eyes, brushing past him on her way to the door. "What do you want?" Her entire body tensed up at his presence. _

"_I thought your flight got in an hour ago," Carter's eyebrow raised in obvious interest as she stood a few feet from him, looking anything but amused._

_Shifting her weight from one leg to the other, she shrugged. "It's not exactly easy to get through the airport these days, Carter," was her only answer. "Now, what the hell do you want?"_

_Throwing his arms up, Carter looks exasperated. "Jesus, Trish. Is this how it's gonna be with us?" He took one step forward, watching as she took one back. "I thought we were good."_

_Her resolve weakened. They had been good together. For a long time. But if she let herself remember that, she would do something stupid. "Look, I'm really tired and I've been up since four, okay? I just need to take a shower and sleep."_

_But Carter stepped into her path. "I just wanna talk to you. Please?"_

_And she folded, just like always. "Fine. You got twenty minutes," she warned, unlocking the front door and leading him inside. She stopped inside the foyer and turned, hands on her hips. If she gave him more than an inch, he would turn it into a lasso, and rope her right back into his web of confusion and pointlessness. "What?"  
_

_Carter seemed bewildered by her change of attitude. Three weeks ago, he had been on the verge of a job with the company, and they had talked about getting back together. The sex had even been good. Everything felt like it was clicking. And now she was cold again. The woman he had known better than any other for most of his life had become a mystery. And if he couldn't be sure of Trish, he couldn't be sure of anything._

"_Alright, so clearly, I've fucked some shit up in our relationship," he laughed slightly, running a hand through his spikey hair. "But I love you, Trish. And I know I keep saying it, but it's true."_

_Trish rolled her eyes. **Here we go again. The same bull shit. All the time**. "I don't doubt that you love me, Carter. That was never the problem."_

_He sagged against the wall, and Trish realized he wasn't wearing the same dickies and punk-rock tee shirt. His hair wasn't the shaggy, tossled mop. He was sporting jeans and polo shirt. With Dr. Martins, instead of his old, beat up Vans. Something was different about Carter. And it wasn't just his attire._

_The look he gave her almost knocked Trish over. "What happened to you?" she asked, more to herself than him._

_He gave her a half-smile. She could see it. There was a glimmer there – something that said she could see the change. "I got a job," he smiled wider. "With a marketing firm in New York."_

_New York? What the hell? "You what?"_

_Carter shook his head and moved toward her again, partially to be near her, but more to keep her from falling over. With a hand on her elbow, he brushed her hair away from her face. "It's nothin' fancy. Yet. I'm just an assistant. But they're gonna pay for me to go to this design school part time and work part time." He was almost laughing with excitement as he finished delivering the news. "And when I graduate? They're gonna promote me and everything."_

_She knew that he was waiting for her to throw her arms around his neck and leap for joy. But she wasn't feeling joy. She really wasn't feeling anything. Her mind, body, and soul all felt numb. "Um," was all she managed to choke out._

_Taking a step back, Carter stuffed his hands into the pocket of his fitted jacket. "Look, I know this is a lot for you to process right now, but," he looked straight into her beautiful eyes. "But this is for real, Trish. I know that you can see it." She just nodded. "And I'm gonna be the man that you have always wanted me to be. The man that you need to be with."_

_The urge to kick him in the face came and went quickly. He had put her through so much pain and confusion. He had been everything she wanted, and didn't want, all at the same time. But before she could say anything, he dropped to one knee and pulled a small velvet box. "Trish?"_

_She blinked her eyes as he opened the box. It wasn't fancy, probably no more than a quarter carat. And the band and setting were equally as simple. But he had gone to the trouble of looking for, and picking out, a ring. It was more initiative than she had ever seen from him. "Carter," she whispered._

"_I totally should have done this years ago, Trish, and I know that now. But maybe later is better than never?" He took her hand from his shoulder and kissed her knuckles. "Will you marry me?"_

_Her breath hitched in her throat, her mind racing in all directions. Without paying attention to any of the thoughts, she turned on her heel and ran for the door. She didn't know where she was going, just that she had to get out. She had to think. She had to figure out what the hell was going on._

Two weeks later, she hadn't stopped running. By the time she had gone home that night, Carter had been gone. The ring, and a note about giving her all the time she needed, had been placed in the middle of her bed. And now, with it tucked safely in her pocket, she wasn't sure if she could stop the running. There was a slight possibility, Trish knew, that if she slowed down, the world would just fold in on top of her.

Parking her bike in front of Titan Towers for the second time that day, she swung her leg over the back end and rested her helmet on the handle bars before gathering her long, blonde locks into a fat ponytail. She had smiled sweetly and pretending to be interested in all the morning meetings, just like the good Trish Stratus always did. But now it was time to get in the gym and kick some ass, and she was more than ready to let Trish the Fighter out to play.

She walked through the halls of the training facility, headed toward the gym with an almost giddy feeling in her chest. Well, as giddy as she had been in more than a month. The weather was nice. She was home again, for the second time in a month. Her body, aside from normal bumps and bruises, felt good. And she got to spend the afternoon working with Victoria. It was shaping up to be a pretty great day.

"I told you, Ma. I am fine," his voice echoed through the concrete walls of the basement as Trish turned the corner and stopped. Randy's back was to her as he paced the far end of the hall. He held his cell phone to one ear and cringed as he tried to move the other arm in a small, circular motion. "I know. . . Ma, I know. . . Listen. . . Would you just fuckin' listen," he shouted. Her eyes grew wide. Who talked to their own mother like that? "I'm sorry, Ma. . . No, I didn't mean it like that. . . I know, I'm sorry. . . I'm just sore, okay? . . . No, the shoulder's fine."

He was lying, and Trish knew it. Not only because he flinched every time he tried to move it, but because he wasn't a very experienced liar. Sure, he was manipulative, maybe deceptive, but he didn't lie. Of all the guys in the locker room, Orton was the only one who was straightforward and honest about what he wanted and who he was.

So to hear him lie to his mother knocked her back a bit. When he finally snapped the phone shut and grabbed the inflamed limb with his free hand, Trish took a step toward him. "Thought you said it didn't hurt much," she smirked.

He turned, and tried to mask his every emotion, good and bad. He tried to remember that she was the one who had walked away from him. He tried to tell himself that he had gotten what he wanted, what he had set out to get, and he should be done with her. But she stood there, hand on her hip, a daring look of concern in her eyes, and he could barely remember his own name. "I lied," he tried to smile.

Trish nodded and moved closer, dropping her duffle bag. It hit the floor in the secluded hall with a whispered "thud." She stood inches from him and raised her hands, gently taking his muscle-bound shoulder in her grasp and kneading it carefully. "Does this hurt?"

He nodded and threw his head back, willing the pain away. Shooting, blinding pain coursed through his arm, but he refused to admit it. He wouldn't tell anyone how bad it really was. "Damn," he finally spat through gritted teeth, pulling away.

Trish took a step back. "Sorry," she mumbled, starting to turn.

But Randy grabbed her arm and pulled her to his chest. A thousand unasked, unanswerable questions passed between them before he crushed his lips to hers. He didn't know what Trish was doing to his head, but he was damn sure about what she did to his body. And three weeks without it was making him insane.

Trish started to reach for his neck, but then pulled back and stepped away from him. "I can't fuckin' believe this," she stomped her foot and tried to shake the stupidity she was feeling. "No, ya know what? I can believe this. Fine." Stalking toward him she checked to make sure they were alone, and reached her hand for his waistband.

Randy caught her tiny fingers in his considerably larger ones, though, and held her hand out to the side. He couldn't believe he was about to tell her no, but the time wasn't right, and he didn't want her pity. For once in his life, he didn't want to fuck her just to fuck her. He didn't want her using the sex as a way to get him out of her system. He could see the game all over her face – he had played it for far too long to be fooled by the mask she was trying to keep in place.

"If we're not gonna fuck, then just let me go," she insisted, trying to wrench her arm from his grasp. But when he wouldn't release her, she met his eye with piqued curiosity. He wasn't smirking like a cocky frat boy. He looked . . . sincere. Almost. "What do you want from me?"

None of it made sense. He knew that it didn't. And he didn't know how to make her, or himself, understand. The stabbing pain in his scarred shoulder did the talking for him. "So, I told you the scars didn't hurt, right?" She nodded. "Clearly, I lied," he tried to laugh it off, but it wasn't a time for laughing and they both knew it. "They hurt like fuck, Trish. Sometimes the tissue's so tight, it's all I can do to get out of bed and get dressed. I'd really, honestly, rather cut it off completely than deal with how it feels right now."

Trish leaned against the wall for support when he closed his eyes and lowered his head toward his chest, wiggling his fingers for circulation. He didn't talk. And he certainly didn't talk about anything other than sex. At least not to her. But hearing him open up, even partially, in that deep, soothing baritone, made her knees feel weak.

He smiled a little and raised his eyebrow, meeting her eye again. "I don't like the pain, but I go through it anyway. And do you know why?" She shook her head, her eyes trained on him with an intensity that nearly stole his breath. "I do it because, if I don't, I might never get back in the ring again. And as much as it hurts, the thought of giving up my dream hurts worse." Rolling his eyes at himself, he went on. "I'm not an optimist or anything. But I tell myself that a ninety percent range of motion is better than eighty-five. It's better than nothing at all. It's better than sitting at home and watching RAW on TV."

She sighed and sank to the floor, her knees hugged tightly to her chest. How did he do that? How did he turn from cocky son of a bitch to thoughtful poet seemingly on a dime? And how much of the façade was real? "I don't know what this has to do with us." Putting up a wall was the only thing she felt capable of anymore, and Trish wasn't about to crumble because he showed some interest in his career.

Randy was frustrated. It made perfect sense in his head. Everything always made sense in his head. _She doesn't even want you to say anything, so who the fuck cares if you say the wrong thing, man? What does it matter? Just fuckin' say it._ "I know you had your heart broken or whatever," he sighed, moving closer to where she huddled on the floor. "But if you just stop feeling anything, Trish? You may never be able to feel again, ya know?"

She shook her head sadly. "Maybe it's better that way."

But Randy shook his head, sat on the floor in front of her, stretched out his legs, and pulled her closer. "It's not. Trust me," he put a finger under her chin and met her eyes, a look of tender understanding there. "You think you can control it, that you can decide who you're going to love and who you're not." Licking his lips, he tried to look away.

Trish felt paralyzed as she sat motionless, staring at him. She had known two kinds of men in the last few months – the kind that promised her the world, but delivered nothing. And the kind that promised her nothing, but delivered something far out of this world. Confusion sank in as she realized the man holding her now was neither.

"You shut everybody out eventually," Randy admitted, the words flowing over his lips without permission. "You use people, and then you throw 'em out like they were fuckin' trash. You start to think that nobody means anything, that life is empty. You start doin' shit you never thought you'd do, just so you can fuckin' feel something again.

"You think it's makin' you feel better, that maybe you're getting some feeling back, but it's Novocain, ya know? You're just numbing yourself for whatever's around the next corner," his gaze drifted away over her head and then down to the floor.

He hadn't planned on saying anything of this, to anyone, EVER, but the moment that the words started flowing, they wouldn't stop. "The next thing you know, you've met this beautiful woman, one that you might actually want to love at some point down the road, and you just can't.

"You can't give her what she needs, because you're completely emotionally incapable. And all of the rules that you set in place to make sure this didn't happen have flown out the window, and you're not even thinkin' about a fall back." He shook his head and slid across the hall, resting against the opposite wall. With his knees up, he half-chuckled, a bitter, empty laugh, and continued. "You're fuckin' the chick in your house, wakin' up next to her, forgetting the condoms when things get too heated.

"You realize you don't know shit one about the woman, but you miss her when she's gone. And it's changing everything that you've come to know in your easy world of emotionless one-night stands."

In that vulnerable, unplanned moment, Trish was sure he spilled more than he ever thought possible. It was the kind of speech that they would both normally mock, had they seen it in a movie or on television. But it was so uncharacteristic of him, so bone-chillingly honest, that she couldn't deny the impact.

So she didn't try. On her knees, Trish crawled to Randy, between his slightly-bent knees, and she kissed him. It wasn't the slow, tender embrace of lovers. They weren't in love, and maybe they never could be. Hell, they barely knew each other. It had the ability to end tragically. Catastrophically.

But fuck the consequences. Fuck Carter's proposal. Fuck anything that happened tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Maybe her heart only had ninety percent range of motion. But that was enough. She didn't need to feel loved, or needed, or even wanted. She just needed to feel alive.


End file.
